Source: Project Gutenberg #35451/#8418/#10523/#14322 Source URL: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35451 ; https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8418 ; https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10523 ; https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/14322 Translator: Gilbert Murray Public domain basis: Public-domain Murray English translations published before 1931. Coverage: Medea, Hippolytus, Alcestis, and Electra; #8418 also contains Bacchae. # Project Gutenberg #35451 Produced by Barbara Watson and the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) THE MEDEA OF EURIPIDES TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH RHYMING VERSE WITH EXPLANATORY NOTES BY GILBERT MURRAY, M.A., LL.D. SOMETIME PROFESSOR OF GREEK IN THE UNIVERSITY OF GLASGOW; FELLOW OF NEW COLLEGE, OXFORD OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS AMERICAN BRANCH NEW YORK: 35 WEST 32ND STREET 1912 Copyright, 1906, by OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS AMERICAN BRANCH INTRODUCTION The _Medea_, in spite of its background of wonder and enchantment, is not a romantic play but a tragedy of character and situation. It deals, so to speak, not with the romance itself, but with the end of the romance, a thing which is so terribly often the reverse of romantic. For all but the very highest of romances are apt to have just one flaw somewhere, and in the story of Jason and Medea the flaw was of a fatal kind. The wildness and beauty of the Argo legend run through all Greek literature, from the mass of Corinthian lays older than our present Iliad, which later writers vaguely associate with the name of Eumelus, to the Fourth Pythian Ode of Pindar and the beautiful Argonautica of Apollonius Rhodius. Our poet knows the wildness and the beauty; but it is not these qualities that he specially seeks. He takes them almost for granted, and pierces through them to the sheer tragedy that lies below. Jason, son of Aeson, King of Iolcos, in Thessaly, began his life in exile. His uncle Pelias had seized his father's kingdom, and Jason was borne away to the mountains by night and given, wrapped in a purple robe, to Chiron, the Centaur. When he reached manhood he came down to Iolcos to demand, as Pindar tells us, his ancestral honour, and stood in the market-place, a world-famous figure, one-sandalled, with his pard-skin, his two spears and his long hair, gentle and wild and fearless, as the Wise Beast had reared him. Pelias, cowed but loath to yield, promised to give up the kingdom if Jason would make his way to the unknown land of Colchis and perform a double quest. First, if I read Pindar aright, he must fetch back the soul of his kinsman Phrixus, who had died there far from home; and, secondly, find the fleece of the Golden Ram which Phrixus had sacrificed. Jason undertook the quest: gathered the most daring heroes from all parts of Hellas; built the first ship, Argo, and set to sea. After all manner of desperate adventures he reached the land of Aietes, king of the Colchians, and there hope failed him. By policy, by tact, by sheer courage he did all that man could do. But Aietes was both hostile and treacherous. The Argonauts were surrounded, and their destruction seemed only a question of days when, suddenly, unasked, and by the mercy of Heaven, Aietes' daughter, Medea, an enchantress as well as a princess, fell in love with Jason. She helped him through all his trials; slew for him her own sleepless serpent, who guarded the fleece; deceived her father, and secured both the fleece and the soul of Phrixus. At the last moment it appeared that her brother, Absyrtus, was about to lay an ambush for Jason. She invited Absyrtus to her room, stabbed him dead, and fled with Jason over the seas. She had given up all, and expected in return a perfect love. And what of Jason? He could not possibly avoid taking Medea with him. He probably rather loved her. She formed at the least a brilliant addition to the glory of his enterprise. Not many heroes could produce a barbarian princess ready to leave all and follow them in blind trust. For of course, as every one knew without the telling in fifth-century Athens, no legal marriage was possible between a Greek and a barbarian from Colchis. All through the voyage home, a world-wide baffled voyage by the Ister and the Eridanus and the African Syrtes, Medea was still in her element, and proved a constant help and counsellor to the Argonauts. When they reached Jason's home, where Pelias was still king, things began to be different. An ordered and law-abiding Greek state was scarcely the place for the untamed Colchian. We only know the catastrophe. She saw with smothered rage how Pelias hated Jason and was bent on keeping the kingdom from him, and she determined to do her lover another act of splendid service. Making the most of her fame as an enchantress, she persuaded Pelias that he could, by a certain process, regain his youth. He eagerly caught at the hope. His daughters tried the process upon him, and Pelias died in agony. Surely Jason would be grateful now! The real result was what it was sure to be in a civilised country. Medea and her lover had to fly for their lives, and Jason was debarred for ever from succeeding to the throne of Iolcos. Probably there was another result also in Jason's mind: the conclusion that at all costs he must somehow separate himself from this wild beast of a woman who was ruining his life. He directed their flight to Corinth, governed at the time by a ruler of some sort, whether "tyrant" or king, who was growing old and had an only daughter. Creon would naturally want a son-in-law to support and succeed him. And where in all Greece could he find one stronger or more famous than the chief of the Argonauts? If only Medea were not there! No doubt Jason owed her a great debt for her various services. Still, after all, he was not married to her. And a man must not be weak in such matters as these. Jason accepted the princess's hand, and when Medea became violent, found it difficult to be really angry with Creon for instantly condemning her to exile. At this point the tragedy begins. The _Medea_ is one of the earliest of Euripides' works now preserved to us. And those of us who have in our time glowed at all with the religion of realism, will probably feel in it many of the qualities of youth. Not, of course, the more normal, sensuous, romantic youth, the youth of _Romeo and Juliet_; but another kind--crude, austere, passionate--the youth of the poet who is also a sceptic and a devotee of truth, who so hates the conventionally and falsely beautiful that he is apt to be unduly ascetic towards beauty itself. When a writer really deficient in poetry walks in this path, the result is purely disagreeable. It produces its best results when the writer, like Euripides or Tolstoy, is so possessed by an inward flame of poetry that it breaks out at the great moments and consumes the cramping theory that would hold it in. One can feel in the _Medea_ that the natural and inevitable romance of the story is kept rigidly down. One word about Medea's ancient serpent, two or three references to the Clashing Rocks, one startling flash of light upon the real love of Jason's life, love for the ship Argo, these are almost all the concessions made to us by the merciless delineator of disaster into whose hands we are fallen. Jason is a middle-aged man, with much glory, indeed, and some illusions; but a man entirely set upon building up a great career, to whom love and all its works, though at times he has found them convenient, are for the most part only irrational and disturbing elements in a world which he can otherwise mould to his will. And yet, most cruel touch of all, one feels this man to be the real Jason. It is not that he has fallen from his heroic past. It is that he was really like this always. And so with Medea. It is not only that her beauty has begun to fade; not only that she is set in surroundings which vaguely belittle and weaken her, making her no more a bountiful princess, but only an ambiguous and much criticised foreigner. Her very devotion of love for Jason, now turned to hatred, shows itself to have been always of that somewhat rank and ugly sort to which such a change is natural. For concentrated dramatic quality and sheer intensity of passion few plays ever written can vie with the _Medea_. Yet it obtained only a third prize at its first production; and, in spite of its immense fame, there are not many scholars who would put it among their favourite tragedies. The comparative failure of the first production was perhaps due chiefly to the extreme originality of the play. The Athenians in 432 B.C. had not yet learnt to understand or tolerate such work as this, though it is likely enough that they fortified their unfavourable opinion by the sort of criticisms which we still find attributed to Aristotle and Dicaearchus. At the present time it is certainly not the newness of the subject: I do not think it is Aegeus, nor yet the dragon chariot, much less Medea's involuntary burst of tears in the second scene with Jason, that really produces the feeling of dissatisfaction with which many people must rise from this great play. It is rather the general scheme on which the drama is built. It is a scheme which occurs again and again in Euripides, a study of oppression and revenge. Such a subject in the hands of a more ordinary writer would probably take the form of a triumph of oppressed virtue. But Euripides gives us nothing so sympathetic, nothing so cheap and unreal. If oppression usually made people virtuous, the problems of the world would be very different from what they are. Euripides seems at times to hate the revenge of the oppressed almost as much as the original cruelty of the oppressor; or, to put the same fact in a different light, he seems deliberately to dwell upon the twofold evil of cruelty, that it not only causes pain to the victim, but actually by means of the pain makes him a worse man, so that when his turn of triumph comes, it is no longer a triumph of justice or a thing to make men rejoice. This is a grim lesson; taught often enough by history, though seldom by the fables of the poets. Seventeen years later than the _Medea_ Euripides expressed this sentiment in a more positive way in the _Trojan Women_, where a depth of wrong borne without revenge becomes, or seems for the moment to become, a thing beautiful and glorious. But more plays are constructed like the _Medea_. The _Hecuba_ begins with a noble and injured Queen, and ends with her hideous vengeance on her enemy and his innocent sons. In the _Orestes_ all our hearts go out to the suffering and deserted prince, till we find at last that we have committed ourselves to the blood-thirst of a madman. In the _Electra_, the workers of the vengeance themselves repent. The dramatic effect of this kind of tragedy is curious. No one can call it undramatic or tame. Yet it is painfully unsatisfying. At the close of the _Medea_ I actually find myself longing for a _deus ex machina_, for some being like Artemis in the _Hippolytus_ or the good Dioscuri of the _Electra_, to speak a word of explanation or forgiveness, or at least leave some sound of music in our ears to drown that dreadful and insistent clamour of hate. The truth is that in this play Medea herself is the _dea ex machina_. The woman whom Jason and Creon intended simply to crush has been transformed by her injuries from an individual human being into a sort of living Curse. She is inspired with superhuman force. Her wrongs and her hate fill all the sky. And the judgment pronounced on Jason comes not from any disinterested or peace-making God, but from his own victim transfigured into a devil. From any such judgment there is an instant appeal to sane human sympathy. Jason has suffered more than enough. But that also is the way of the world. And the last word upon these tragic things is most often something not to be expressed by the sentences of even the wisest articulate judge, but only by the unspoken _lacrimae rerum_. G. M. MEDEA CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY MEDEA, _daughter of Aietes, King of Colchis_. JASON, _chief of the Argonauts; nephew of Pelias, King of Iolcos in Thessaly_. CREON, _ruler of Corinth_. AEGEUS, _King of Athens_. NURSE _of Medea_. TWO CHILDREN _of Jason and Medea_. ATTENDANT _on the children_. A MESSENGER. CHORUS of Corinthian Women, with their LEADER. Soldiers and Attendants. _The scene is laid in Corinth. The play was first acted when Pythodorus was Archon, Olympiad 87, year_ 1 (B.C. 431). _Euphorion was first, Sophocles second, Euripides third, with Medea, Philoctetes, Dictys, and the Harvesters, a Satyr-play._ MEDEA _The Scene represents the front of_ MEDEA'S _House in Corinth. A road to the right leads towards the royal castle, one on the left to the harbour. The_ NURSE _is discovered alone_. NURSE. Would God no Argo e'er had winged the seas To Colchis through the blue Symplegades: No shaft of riven pine in Pelion's glen Shaped that first oar-blade in the hands of men Valiant, who won, to save King Pelias' vow, The fleece All-golden! Never then, I trow, Mine own princess, her spirit wounded sore With love of Jason, to the encastled shore Had sailed of old Iolcos: never wrought The daughters of King Pelias, knowing not, To spill their father's life: nor fled in fear, Hunted for that fierce sin, to Corinth here With Jason and her babes. This folk at need Stood friend to her, and she in word and deed Served alway Jason. Surely this doth bind, Through all ill days, the hurts of humankind, When man and woman in one music move. But now, the world is angry, and true love Sick as with poison. Jason doth forsake My mistress and his own two sons, to make His couch in a king's chamber. He must wed: Wed with this Creon's child, who now is head And chief of Corinth. Wherefore sore betrayed Medea calleth up the oath they made, They two, and wakes the clasped hands again, The troth surpassing speech, and cries amain On God in heaven to mark the end, and how Jason hath paid his debt. All fasting now And cold, her body yielded up to pain, Her days a waste of weeping, she hath lain, Since first she knew that he was false. Her eyes Are lifted not; and all her visage lies In the dust. If friends will speak, she hears no more Than some dead rock or wave that beats the shore: Only the white throat in a sudden shame May writhe, and all alone she moans the name Of father, and land, and home, forsook that day For this man's sake, who casteth her away. Not to be quite shut out from home . . . alas, She knoweth now how rare a thing that was! Methinks she hath a dread, not joy, to see Her children near. 'Tis this that maketh me Most tremble, lest she do I know not what. Her heart is no light thing, and useth not To brook much wrong. I know that woman, aye, And dread her! Will she creep alone to die Bleeding in that old room, where still is laid Lord Jason's bed? She hath for that a blade Made keen. Or slay the bridegroom and the king, And win herself God knows what direr thing? 'Tis a fell spirit. Few, I ween, shall stir Her hate unscathed, or lightly humble her. Ha! 'Tis the children from their games again, Rested and gay; and all their mother's pain Forgotten! Young lives ever turn from gloom! [_The_ CHILDREN _and their_ ATTENDANT _come in_. ATTENDANT. Thou ancient treasure of my lady's room, What mak'st thou here before the gates alone, And alway turning on thy lips some moan Of old mischances? Will our mistress be Content, this long time to be left by thee? NURSE. Grey guard of Jason's children, a good thrall Hath his own grief, if any hurt befall His masters. Aye, it holds one's heart! . . . Meseems I have strayed out so deep in evil dreams, I longed to rest me here alone, and cry Medea's wrongs to this still Earth and Sky. ATTENDANT. How? Are the tears yet running in her eyes? NURSE. 'Twere good to be like thee! . . . Her sorrow lies Scarce wakened yet, not half its perils wrought. ATTENDANT. Mad spirit! . . . if a man may speak his thought Of masters mad.--And nothing in her ears Hath sounded yet of her last cause for tears! [_He moves towards the house, but the_ NURSE _checks him_. NURSE. What cause, old man? . . . Nay, grudge me not one word. ATTENDANT. 'Tis nothing. Best forget what thou hast heard. NURSE. Nay, housemate, by thy beard! Hold it not hid From me. . . . I will keep silence if thou bid. ATTENDANT. I heard an old man talking, where he sate At draughts in the sun, beside the fountain gate, And never thought of me, there standing still Beside him. And he said, 'Twas Creon's will, Being lord of all this land, that she be sent, And with her her two sons, to banishment. Maybe 'tis all false. For myself, I know No further, and I would it were not so. NURSE. Jason will never bear it--his own sons Banished,--however hot his anger runs Against their mother! ATTENDANT. Old love burneth low When new love wakes, men say. He is not now Husband nor father here, nor any kin. NURSE. But this is ruin! New waves breaking in To wreck us, ere we are righted from the old! ATTENDANT. Well, hold thy peace. Our mistress will be told All in good time. Speak thou no word hereof. NURSE. My babes! What think ye of your father's love? God curse him not, he is my master still: But, oh, to them that loved him, 'tis an ill Friend. . . . ATTENDANT. And what man on earth is different? How? Hast thou lived all these years, and learned but now That every man more loveth his own head Than other men's? He dreameth of the bed Of this new bride, and thinks not of his sons. NURSE. Go: run into the house, my little ones: All will end happily! . . . Keep them apart: Let not their mother meet them while her heart Is darkened. Yester night I saw a flame Stand in her eye, as though she hated them, And would I know not what. For sure her wrath Will never turn nor slumber, till she hath . . . Go: and if some must suffer, may it be Not we who love her, but some enemy! VOICE (_within_). Oh shame and pain: O woe is me! Would I could die in my misery! [_The_ CHILDREN _and the_ ATTENDANT _go in_. NURSE. Ah, children, hark! She moves again Her frozen heart, her sleeping wrath. In, quick! And never cross her path, Nor rouse that dark eye in its pain; That fell sea-spirit, and the dire Spring of a will untaught, unbowed. Quick, now!--Methinks this weeping cloud Hath in its heart some thunder-fire, Slow gathering, that must flash ere long. I know not how, for ill or well, It turns, this uncontrollable Tempestuous spirit, blind with wrong. VOICE (_within_). Have I not suffered? Doth it call No tears? . . . Ha, ye beside the wall Unfathered children, God hate you As I am hated, and him, too, That gat you, and this house and all! NURSE. For pity! What have they to do, Babes, with their father's sin? Why call Thy curse on these? . . . Ah, children, all These days my bosom bleeds for you. Rude are the wills of princes: yea, Prevailing alway, seldom crossed, On fitful winds their moods are tossed: 'Tis best men tread the equal way. Aye, not with glory but with peace May the long summers find me crowned: For gentleness--her very sound Is magic, and her usages. All wholesome: but the fiercely great Hath little music on his road, And falleth, when the hand of God Shall move, most deep and desolate. [_During the last words the_ LEADER _of the Chorus has entered. Other women follow her._ LEADER. I heard a voice and a moan, A voice of the eastern seas: Hath she found not yet her ease? Speak, O aged one. For I stood afar at the gate, And there came from within a cry, And wailing desolate. Ah, no more joy have I, For the griefs this house doth see, And the love it hath wrought in me. NURSE. There is no house! 'Tis gone. The lord Seeketh a prouder bed: and she Wastes in her chamber, not one word Will hear of care or charity. VOICE (_within_). O Zeus, O Earth, O Light, Will the fire not stab my brain? What profiteth living? Oh, Shall I not lift the slow Yoke, and let Life go, As a beast out in the night, To lie, and be rid of pain? CHORUS. _Some Women_ A. "O Zeus, O Earth, O Light:" The cry of a bride forlorn Heard ye, and wailing born Of lost delight? B. Why weariest thou this day, Wild heart, for the bed abhorred, The cold bed in the clay? Death cometh though no man pray, Ungarlanded, un-adored. Call him not thou. C. If another's arms be now Where thine have been, On his head be the sin: Rend not thy brow! D. All that thou sufferest, God seeth: Oh, not so sore Waste nor weep for the breast That was thine of yore. VOICE (_within_). Virgin of Righteousness, Virgin of hallowed Troth, Ye marked me when with an oath I bound him; mark no less That oath's end. Give me to see Him and his bride, who sought My grief when I wronged her not, Broken in misery, And all her house. . . . O God, My mother's home, and the dim Shore that I left for him, And the voice of my brother's blood. . . . NURSE. Oh, wild words! Did ye hear her cry To them that guard man's faith forsworn, Themis and Zeus? . . . This wrath new-born Shall make mad workings ere it die. CHORUS. _Other Women._ A. Would she but come to seek Our faces, that love her well, And take to her heart the spell Of words that speak? B. Alas for the heavy hate And anger that burneth ever! Would it but now abate, Ah God, I love her yet. And surely my love's endeavour Shall fail not here. C. Go: from that chamber drear Forth to the day Lead her, and say, Oh, say That we love her dear. D. Go, lest her hand be hard On the innocent: Ah, let be! For her grief moves hitherward, Like an angry sea. NURSE. That will I: though what words of mine Or love shall move her? Let them lie With the old lost labours! . . . Yet her eye-- Know ye the eyes of the wild kine, The lion flash that guards their brood? So looks she now if any thrall Speak comfort, or draw near at all My mistress in her evil mood. [_The_ NURSE _goes into the house_. CHORUS. _A Woman._ Alas, the bold blithe bards of old That all for joy their music made, For feasts and dancing manifold, That Life might listen and be glad. But all the darkness and the wrong, Quick deaths and dim heart-aching things, Would no man ease them with a song Or music of a thousand strings? Then song had served us in our need. What profit, o'er the banquet's swell That lingering cry that none may heed? The feast hath filled them: all is well! _Others._ I heard a song, but it comes no more. Where the tears ran over: A keen cry but tired, tired: A woman's cry for her heart's desired, For a traitor's kiss and a lost lover. But a prayer, methinks, yet riseth sore To God, to Faith, God's ancient daughter-- The Faith that over sundering seas Drew her to Hellas, and the breeze Of midnight shivered, and the door Closed of the salt unsounded water. [_During the last words_ MEDEA _has come out from the house_. MEDEA. Women of Corinth, I am come to show My face, lest ye despise me. For I know Some heads stand high and fail not, even at night Alone--far less like this, in all men's sight: And we, who study not our wayfarings But feel and cry--Oh we are drifting things, And evil! For what truth is in men's eyes, Which search no heart, but in a flash despise A strange face, shuddering back from one that ne'er Hath wronged them? . . . Sure, far-comers anywhere, I know, must bow them and be gentle. Nay, A Greek himself men praise not, who alway Should seek his own will recking not. . . . But I-- This thing undreamed of, sudden from on high, Hath sapped my soul: I dazzle where I stand, The cup of all life shattered in my hand, Longing to die--O friends! He, even he, Whom to know well was all the world to me, The man I loved, hath proved most evil.--Oh, Of all things upon earth that bleed and grow, A herb most bruised is woman. We must pay Our store of gold, hoarded for that one day, To buy us some man's love; and lo, they bring A master of our flesh! There comes the sting Of the whole shame. And then the jeopardy, For good or ill, what shall that master be; Reject she cannot: and if he but stays His suit, 'tis shame on all that woman's days. So thrown amid new laws, new places, why, 'Tis magic she must have, or prophecy-- Home never taught her that--how best to guide Toward peace this thing that sleepeth at her side. And she who, labouring long, shall find some way Whereby her lord may bear with her, nor fray His yoke too fiercely, blessed is the breath That woman draws! Else, let her pray for death. Her lord, if he be wearied of the face Withindoors, gets him forth; some merrier place Will ease his heart: but she waits on, her whole Vision enchained on a single soul. And then, forsooth, 'tis they that face the call Of war, while we sit sheltered, hid from all Peril!--False mocking! Sooner would I stand Three times to face their battles, shield in hand, Than bear one child. But peace! There cannot be Ever the same tale told of thee and me. Thou hast this city, and thy father's home, And joy of friends, and hope in days to come: But I, being citiless, am cast aside By him that wedded me, a savage bride Won in far seas and left--no mother near, No brother, not one kinsman anywhere For harbour in this storm. Therefore of thee I ask one thing. If chance yet ope to me Some path, if even now my hand can win Strength to requite this Jason for his sin, Betray me not! Oh, in all things but this, I know how full of fears a woman is, And faint at need, and shrinking from the light Of battle: but once spoil her of her right In man's love, and there moves, I warn thee well, No bloodier spirit between heaven and hell. LEADER. I will betray thee not. It is but just, Thou smite him.--And that weeping in the dust And stormy tears, how should I blame them? . . . Stay: 'Tis Creon, lord of Corinth, makes his way Hither, and bears, methinks, some word of weight. _Enter from the right_ CREON, _the King, with armed Attendants_. CREON. Thou woman sullen-eyed and hot with hate Against thy lord, Medea, I here command That thou and thy two children from this land Go forth to banishment. Make no delay: Seeing ourselves, the King, are come this day To see our charge fulfilled; nor shall again Look homeward ere we have led thy children twain And thee beyond our realm's last boundary. MEDEA. Lost! Lost! Mine haters at the helm with sail flung free Pursuing; and for us no beach nor shore In the endless waters! . . . Yet, though stricken sore, I still will ask thee, for what crime, what thing Unlawful, wilt thou cast me out, O King? CREON. What crime? I fear thee, woman--little need To cloak my reasons--lest thou work some deed Of darkness on my child. And in that fear Reasons enough have part. Thou comest here A wise-woman confessed, and full of lore In unknown ways of evil. Thou art sore In heart, being parted from thy lover's arms. And more, thou hast made menace . . . so the alarms But now have reached mine ear . . . on bride and groom, And him who gave the bride, to work thy doom Of vengeance. Which, ere yet it be too late, I sweep aside. I choose to earn thine hate Of set will now, not palter with the mood Of mercy, and hereafter weep in blood. MEDEA. 'Tis not the first nor second time, O King, That fame hath hurt me, and come nigh to bring My ruin. . . . How can any man, whose eyes Are wholesome, seek to rear his children wise Beyond men's wont? Much helplessness in arts Of common life, and in their townsmen's hearts Envy deep-set . . . so much their learning brings! Come unto fools with knowledge of new things, They deem it vanity, not knowledge. Aye, And men that erst for wisdom were held high, Feel thee a thorn to fret them, privily Held higher than they. So hath it been with me. A wise-woman I am; and for that sin To divers ill names men would pen me in; A seed of strife; an eastern dreamer; one Of brand not theirs; one hard to play upon . . . Ah, I am not so wondrous wise!--And now, To thee, I am terrible! What fearest thou? What dire deed? Do I tread so proud a path-- Fear me not thou!--that I should brave the wrath Of princes? Thou: what has thou ever done To wrong me? Granted thine own child to one Whom thy soul chose.--Ah, _him_ out of my heart I hate; but thou, meseems, hast done thy part Not ill. And for thine houses' happiness I hold no grudge. Go: marry, and God bless Your issues. Only suffer me to rest Somewhere within this land. Though sore oppressed, I will be still, knowing mine own defeat. CREON. Thy words be gentle: but I fear me yet Lest even now there creep some wickedness Deep hid within thee. And for that the less I trust thee now than ere these words began. A woman quick of wrath, aye, or a man, Is easier watching than the cold and still. Up, straight, and find thy road! Mock not my will With words. This doom is passed beyond recall; Nor all thy crafts shall help thee, being withal My manifest foe, to linger at my side. MEDEA (_suddenly throwing herself down and clinging to_ CREON). Oh, by thy knees! By that new-wedded bride . . . CREON. 'Tis waste of words. Thou shalt not weaken me. MEDEA. Wilt hunt me? Spurn me when I kneel to thee? CREON. 'Tis mine own house that kneels to me, not thou. MEDEA. Home, my lost home, how I desire thee now! CREON. And I mine, and my child, beyond all things. MEDEA. O Loves of man, what curse is on your wings! CREON. Blessing or curse, 'tis as their chances flow. MEDEA. Remember, Zeus, the cause of all this woe! CREON. Oh, rid me of my pains! Up, get thee gone! MEDEA. What would I with thy pains? I have mine own. CREON. Up: or, 'fore God, my soldiers here shall fling . . . MEDEA. Not that! Not that! . . . I do but pray, O King . . . CREON. Thou wilt not? I must face the harsher task? MEDEA. I accept mine exile. 'Tis not that I ask. CREON. Why then so wild? Why clinging to mine hand? MEDEA (_rising_). For one day only leave me in thy land At peace, to find some counsel, ere the strain Of exile fall, some comfort for these twain, Mine innocents; since others take no thought, It seems, to save the babes that they begot. Ah! Thou wilt pity them! Thou also art A father: thou hast somewhere still a heart That feels. . . . I reck not of myself: 'tis they That break me, fallen upon so dire a day. CREON. Mine is no tyrant's mood. Aye, many a time Ere this my tenderness hath marred the chime Of wisest counsels. And I know that now I do mere folly. But so be it! Thou Shalt have this grace . . . But this I warn thee clear, If once the morrow's sunlight find thee here Within my borders, thee or child of thine, Thou diest! . . . Of this judgment not a line Shall waver nor abate. So linger on, If thou needs must, till the next risen sun; No further. . . . In one day there scarce can be Those perils wrought whose dread yet haunteth me. [_Exit_ CREON _with his suite_. CHORUS. O woman, woman of sorrow, Where wilt thou turn and flee? What town shall be thine to-morrow, What land of all lands that be, What door of a strange man's home? Yea, God hath hunted thee, Medea, forth to the foam Of a trackless sea. MEDEA. Defeat on every side; what else?--But Oh, Not here the end is: think it not! I know For bride and groom one battle yet untried, And goodly pains for him that gave the bride. Dost dream I would have grovelled to this man, Save that I won mine end, and shaped my plan For merry deeds? My lips had never deigned Speak word with him: my flesh been never stained With touching. . . . Fool, Oh, triple fool! It lay So plain for him to kill my whole essay By exile swift: and, lo, he sets me free This one long day: wherein mine haters three Shall lie here dead, the father and the bride And husband--mine, not hers! Oh, I have tried So many thoughts of murder to my turn, I know not which best likes me. Shall I burn Their house with fire? Or stealing past unseen To Jason's bed--I have a blade made keen For that--stab, breast to breast, that wedded pair? Good, but for one thing. When I am taken there, And killed, they will laugh loud who hate me. . . . Nay, I love the old way best, the simple way Of poison, where we too are strong as men. Ah me! And they being dead--what place shall hold me then? What friend shall rise, with land inviolate And trusty doors, to shelter from their hate This flesh? . . . None anywhere! . . . A little more I needs must wait: and, if there ope some door Of refuge, some strong tower to shield me, good: In craft and darkness I will hunt this blood. Else, if mine hour be come and no hope nigh, Then sword in hand, full-willed and sure to die, I yet will live to slay them. I will wend Man-like, their road of daring to the end. So help me She who of all Gods hath been The best to me, of all my chosen queen And helpmate, Hecate, who dwells apart, The flame of flame, in my fire's inmost heart: For all their strength, they shall not stab my soul And laugh thereafter! Dark and full of dole Their bridal feast shall be, most dark the day They joined their hands, and hunted me away. Awake thee now, Medea! Whatso plot Thou hast, or cunning, strive and falter not. On to the peril-point! Now comes the strain Of daring. Shall they trample thee again? How? And with Hellas laughing o'er thy fall While this thief's daughter weds, and weds withal Jason? . . . A true king was thy father, yea, And born of the ancient Sun! . . . Thou know'st the way; And God hath made thee woman, things most vain For help, but wondrous in the paths of pain. [MEDEA _goes into the House_. CHORUS. Back streams the wave on the ever running river: Life, life is changed and the laws of it o'ertrod. Man shall be the slave, the affrighted, the low-liver! Man hath forgotten God. And woman, yea, woman, shall be terrible in story: The tales too, meseemeth, shall be other than of yore. For a fear there is that cometh out of Woman and a glory, And the hard hating voices shall encompass her no more! The old bards shall cease, and their memory that lingers Of frail brides and faithless, shall be shrivelled as with fire. For they loved us not, nor knew us: and our lips were dumb, our fingers Could wake not the secret of the lyre. Else, else, O God the Singer, I had sung amid their rages A long tale of Man and his deeds for good and ill. But the old World knoweth--'tis the speech of all his ages-- Man's wrong and ours: he knoweth and is still. _Some Women._ Forth from thy father's home Thou camest, O heart of fire, To the Dark Blue Rocks, to the clashing foam, To the seas of thy desire: Till the Dark Blue Bar was crossed; And, lo, by an alien river Standing, thy lover lost, Void-armed for ever, Forth yet again, O lowest Of landless women, a ranger Of desolate ways, thou goest, From the walls of the stranger. _Others._ And the great Oath waxeth weak; And Ruth, as a thing outstriven, Is fled, fled, from the shores of the Greek, Away on the winds of heaven. Dark is the house afar, Where an old king called thee daughter; All that was once thy star In stormy water, Dark: and, lo, in the nearer House that was sworn to love thee, Another, queenlier, dearer, Is throned above thee. _Enter from the right_ JASON. JASON. Oft have I seen, in other days than these, How a dark temper maketh maladies No friend can heal. 'Twas easy to have kept Both land and home. It needed but to accept Unstrivingly the pleasure of our lords. But thou, for mere delight in stormy words, Wilt lose all! . . . Now thy speech provokes not me. Rail on. Of all mankind let Jason be Most evil; none shall check thee. But for these Dark threats cast out against the majesties Of Corinth, count as veriest gain thy path Of exile. I myself, when princely wrath Was hot against thee, strove with all good will To appease the wrath, and wished to keep thee still Beside me. But thy mouth would never stay From vanity, blaspheming night and day Our masters. Therefore thou shalt fly the land. Yet, even so, I will not hold my hand From succouring mine own people. Here am I To help thee, woman, pondering heedfully Thy new state. For I would not have thee flung Provisionless away--aye, and the young Children as well; nor lacking aught that will Of mine can bring thee. Many a lesser ill Hangs on the heels of exile. . . . Aye, and though Thou hate me, dream not that my heart can know Or fashion aught of angry will to thee. MEDEA. Evil, most evil! . . . since thou grantest me That comfort, the worst weapon left me now To smite a coward. . . . Thou comest to me, thou, Mine enemy! (_Turning to the_ CHORUS.) Oh, say, how call ye this, To face, and smile, the comrade whom his kiss Betrayed? Scorn? Insult? Courage? None of these: 'Tis but of all man's inward sicknesses The vilest, that he knoweth not of shame Nor pity! Yet I praise him that he came . . . To me it shall bring comfort, once to clear My heart on thee, and thou shalt wince to hear. I will begin with that, 'twixt me and thee, That first befell. I saved thee. I saved thee-- Let thine own Greeks be witness, every one That sailed on Argo--saved thee, sent alone To yoke with yokes the bulls of fiery breath, And sow that Acre of the Lords of Death; And mine own ancient Serpent, who did keep The Golden Fleece, the eyes that knew not sleep, And shining coils, him also did I smite Dead for thy sake, and lifted up the light That bade thee live. Myself, uncounselled, Stole forth from father and from home, and fled Where dark Iolcos under Pelion lies, With thee--Oh, single-hearted more than wise! I murdered Pelias, yea, in agony, By his own daughters' hands, for sake of thee; I swept their house like War.--And hast thou then Accepted all--O evil yet again!-- And cast me off and taken thee for bride Another? And with children at thy side! One could forgive a childless man. But no: I have borne thee children . . . Is sworn faith so low And weak a thing? I understand it not. Are the old gods dead? Are the old laws forgot, And new laws made? Since not my passioning, But thine own heart, doth cry thee for a thing Forsworn. [_She catches sight of her own hand which she has thrown out to denounce him._ Poor, poor right hand of mine, whom he Did cling to, and these knees, so cravingly, We are unclean, thou and I; we have caught the stain Of bad men's flesh . . . and dreamed our dreams in vain. Thou comest to befriend me? Give me, then, Thy counsel. 'Tis not that I dream again For good from thee: but, questioned, thou wilt show The viler. Say: now whither shall I go? Back to my father? Him I did betray, And all his land, when we two fled away. To those poor Peliad maids? For them 'twere good To take me in, who spilled their father's blood. . . . Aye, so my whole life stands! There were at home Who loved me well: to them I am become A curse. And the first friends who sheltered me, Whom most I should have spared, to pleasure thee I have turned to foes. Oh, therefore hast thou laid My crown upon me, blest of many a maid In Hellas, now I have won what all did crave, Thee, the world-wondered lover and the brave; Who this day looks and sees me banished, thrown Away with these two babes, all, all, alone . . . Oh, merry mocking when the lamps are red: "Where go the bridegroom's babes to beg their bread In exile, and the woman who gave all To save him?" O great God, shall gold withal Bear thy clear mark, to sift the base and fine, And o'er man's living visage runs no sign To show the lie within, ere all too late? LEADER. Dire and beyond all healing is the hate When hearts that loved are turned to enmity. JASON. In speech at least, meseemeth, I must be Not evil; but, as some old pilot goes Furled to his sail's last edge, when danger blows Too fiery, run before the wind and swell, Woman, of thy loud storms.--And thus I tell My tale. Since thou wilt build so wondrous high Thy deeds of service in my jeopardy, To all my crew and quest I know but one Saviour, of Gods or mortals one alone, The Cyprian. Oh, thou hast both brain and wit, Yet underneath . . . nay, all the tale of it Were graceless telling; how sheer love, a fire Of poison-shafts, compelled thee with desire To save me. But enough. I will not score That count too close. 'Twas good help: and therefor I give thee thanks, howe'er the help was wrought. Howbeit, in my deliverance, thou hast got Far more than given. A good Greek land hath been Thy lasting home, not barbary. Thou hast seen Our ordered life, and justice, and the long Still grasp of law not changing with the strong Man's pleasure. Then, all Hellas far and near Hath learned thy wisdom, and in every ear Thy fame is. Had thy days run by unseen On that last edge of the world, where then had been The story of great Medea? Thou and I . . . What worth to us were treasures heaped high In rich kings' rooms; what worth a voice of gold More sweet than ever rang from Orpheus old, Unless our deeds have glory? Speak I so, Touching the Quest I wrought, thyself did throw The challenge down. Next for thy cavilling Of wrath at mine alliance with a king, Here thou shalt see I both was wise, and free From touch of passion, and a friend to thee Most potent, and my children . . . Nay, be still! When first I stood in Corinth, clogged with ill From many a desperate mischance, what bliss Could I that day have dreamed of, like to this, To wed with a king's daughter, I exiled And beggared? Not--what makes thy passion wild-- From loathing of thy bed; not over-fraught With love for this new bride; not that I sought To upbuild mine house with offspring: 'tis enough, What thou hast borne: I make no word thereof: But, first and greatest, that we all might dwell In a fair house and want not, knowing well That poor men have no friends, but far and near Shunning and silence. Next, I sought to rear Our sons in nurture worthy of my race, And, raising brethren to them, in one place Join both my houses, and be all from now Prince-like and happy. What more need hast thou Of children? And for me, it serves my star To link in strength the children that now are With those that shall be. Have I counselled ill? Not thine own self would say it, couldst thou still One hour thy jealous flesh.--'Tis ever so! Who looks for more in women? When the flow Of love runs plain, why, all the world is fair: But, once there fall some ill chance anywhere To baulk that thirst, down in swift hate are trod Men's dearest aims and noblest. Would to God We mortals by some other seed could raise Our fruits, and no blind women block our ways! Then had there been no curse to wreck mankind. LEADER. Lord Jason, very subtly hast thou twined Thy speech: but yet, though all athwart thy will I speak, this is not well thou dost, but ill, Betraying her who loved thee and was true. MEDEA. Surely I have my thoughts, and not a few Have held me strange. To me it seemeth, when A crafty tongue is given to evil men 'Tis like to wreck, not help them. Their own brain Tempts them with lies to dare and dare again, Till . . . no man hath enough of subtlety. As thou--be not so seeming-fair to me Nor deft of speech. One word will make thee fall. Wert thou not false, 'twas thine to tell me all, And charge me help thy marriage path, as I Did love thee; not befool me with a lie. JASON. An easy task had that been! Aye, and thou A loving aid, who canst not, even now, Still that loud heart that surges like the tide! MEDEA. That moved thee not. Thine old barbarian bride, The dog out of the east who loved thee sore, She grew grey-haired, she served thy pride no more. JASON. Now understand for once! The girl to me Is nothing, in this web of sovranty I hold. I do but seek to save, even yet, Thee: and for brethren to our sons beget Young kings, to prosper all our lives again. MEDEA. God shelter me from prosperous days of pain, And wealth that maketh wounds about my heart. JASON. Wilt change that prayer, and choose a wiser part? Pray not to hold true sense for pain, nor rate Thyself unhappy, being too fortunate. MEDEA. Aye, mock me; thou hast where to lay thine head, But I go naked to mine exile. JASON. Tread Thine own path! Thou hast made it all to be. MEDEA. How? By seducing and forsaking thee? JASON. By those vile curses on the royal halls Let loose. . . . MEDEA. On thy house also, as chance falls, I am a living curse. JASON. Oh, peace! Enough Of these vain wars: I will no more thereof. If thou wilt take from all that I possess Aid for these babes and thine own helplessness Of exile, speak thy bidding. Here I stand Full-willed to succour thee with stintless hand, And send my signet to old friends that dwell On foreign shores, who will entreat thee well. Refuse, and thou shalt do a deed most vain. But cast thy rage away, and thou shalt gain Much, and lose little for thine anger's sake. MEDEA. I will not seek thy friends. I will not take Thy givings. Give them not. Fruits of a stem Unholy bring no blessing after them. JASON. Now God in heaven be witness, all my heart Is willing, in all ways, to do its part For thee and for thy babes. But nothing good Can please thee. In sheer savageness of mood Thou drivest from thee every friend. Wherefore I warrant thee, thy pains shall be the more. [_He goes slowly away._ MEDEA. Go: thou art weary for the new delight Thou wooest, so long tarrying out of sight Of her sweet chamber. Go, fulfil thy pride, O bridegroom! For it may be, such a bride Shall wait thee,--yea, God heareth me in this-- As thine own heart shall sicken ere it kiss. * * * * * CHORUS. Alas, the Love that falleth like a flood, Strong-winged and transitory: Why praise ye him? What beareth he of good To man, or glory? Yet Love there is that moves in gentleness, Heart-filling, sweetest of all powers that bless. Loose not on me, O Holder of man's heart, Thy golden quiver, Nor steep in poison of desire the dart That heals not ever. The pent hate of the word that cavilleth, The strife that hath no fill, Where once was fondness; and the mad heart's breath For strange love panting still: O Cyprian, cast me not on these; but sift, Keen-eyed, of love the good and evil gift. Make Innocence my friend, God's fairest star, Yea, and abate not The rare sweet beat of bosoms without war, That love, and hate not. _Others._ Home of my heart, land of my own, Cast me not, nay, for pity, Out on my ways, helpless, alone, Where the feet fail in the mire and stone, A woman without a city. Ah, not that! Better the end: The green grave cover me rather, If a break must come in the days I know, And the skies be changed and the earth below; For the weariest road that man may wend Is forth from the home of his father. Lo, we have seen: 'tis not a song Sung, nor learned of another. For whom hast thou in thy direst wrong For comfort? Never a city strong To hide thee, never a brother. Ah, but the man--cursed be he, Cursed beyond recover, Who openeth, shattering, seal by seal, A friend's clean heart, then turns his heel, Deaf unto love: never in me Friend shall he know nor lover. [_While_ MEDEA _is waiting downcast, seated upon her door-step, there passes from the left a traveller with followers. As he catches sight of_ MEDEA _he stops_. AEGEUS. Have joy, Medea! 'Tis the homeliest Word that old friends can greet with, and the best. MEDEA (_looking up, surprised_). Oh, joy on thee, too, Aegeus, gentle king Of Athens!--But whence com'st thou journeying? AEGEUS. From Delphi now and the old encaverned stair. . . . MEDEA. Where Earth's heart speaks in song? What mad'st thou there? AEGEUS. Prayed heaven for children--the same search alway. MEDEA. Children? Ah God! Art childless to this day? AEGEUS. So God hath willed. Childless and desolate. MEDEA. What word did Phoebus speak, to change thy fate? AEGEUS. Riddles, too hard for mortal man to read. MEDEA. Which I may hear? AEGEUS. Assuredly: they need A rarer wit. MEDEA. How said he? AEGEUS. Not to spill Life's wine, nor seek for more. . . . MEDEA. Until? AEGEUS. Until I tread the hearth-stone of my sires of yore. MEDEA. And what should bring thee here, by Creon's shore? AEGEUS. One Pittheus know'st thou, high lord of Trozen? MEDEA. Aye, Pelops' son, a man most pure of sin. AEGEUS. Him I would ask, touching Apollo's will. MEDEA. Much use in God's ways hath he, and much skill. AEGEUS. And, long years back he was my battle-friend, The truest e'er man had. MEDEA. Well, may God send Good hap to thee, and grant all thy desire. AEGEUS. But thou . . . ? Thy frame is wasted, and the fire Dead in thine eyes. MEDEA. Aegeus, my husband is The falsest man in the world. AEGEUS. What word is this? Say clearly what thus makes thy visage dim? MEDEA. He is false to me, who never injured him. AEGEUS. What hath he done? Show all, that I may see. MEDEA. Ta'en him a wife; a wife, set over me To rule his house. AEGEUS. He hath not dared to do, Jason, a thing so shameful? MEDEA. Aye, 'tis true: And those he loved of yore have no place now. AEGEUS. Some passion sweepeth him? Or is it thou He turns from? MEDEA. Passion, passion to betray His dearest! AEGEUS. Shame be his, so fallen away From honour! MEDEA. Passion to be near a throne, A king's heir! AEGEUS. How, who gives the bride? Say on. MEDEA. Creon, who o'er all Corinth standeth chief. AEGEUS. Woman, thou hast indeed much cause for grief. MEDEA. 'Tis ruin.--And they have cast me out as well. AEGEUS. Who? 'Tis a new wrong this, and terrible. MEDEA. Creon the king, from every land and shore. . . . AEGEUS. And Jason suffers him? Oh, 'tis too sore! MEDEA. He loveth to bear bravely ills like these! But, Aegeus, by thy beard, oh, by thy knees, I pray thee, and I give me for thine own, Thy suppliant, pity me! Oh, pity one So miserable. Thou never wilt stand there And see me cast out friendless to despair. Give me a home in Athens . . . by the fire Of thine own hearth! Oh, so may thy desire Of children be fulfilled of God, and thou Die happy! . . . Thou canst know not; even now Thy prize is won! I, I will make of thee A childless man no more. The seed shall be, I swear it, sown. Such magic herbs I know. AEGEUS. Woman, indeed my heart goes forth to show This help to thee, first for religion's sake, Then for thy promised hope, to heal my ache Of childlessness. 'Tis this hath made mine whole Life as a shadow, and starved out my soul. But thus it stands with me. Once make thy way To Attic earth, I, as in law I may, Will keep thee and befriend. But in this land, Where Creon rules, I may not raise my hand To shelter thee. Move of thine own essay To seek my house, there thou shalt alway stay, Inviolate, never to be seized again. But come thyself from Corinth. I would fain Even in foreign eyes be alway just. MEDEA. 'Tis well. Give me an oath wherein to trust And all that man could ask thou hast granted me. AEGEUS. Dost trust me not? Or what thing troubleth thee? MEDEA. I trust thee. But so many, far and near, Do hate me--all King Pelias' house, and here Creon. Once bound by oaths and sanctities Thou canst not yield me up for such as these To drag from Athens. But a spoken word, No more, to bind thee, which no God hath heard. . . The embassies, methinks, would come and go: They all are friends to thee. . . . Ah me, I know Thou wilt not list to me! So weak am I, And they full-filled with gold and majesty. AEGEUS. Methinks 'tis a far foresight, this thine oath. Still, if thou so wilt have it, nothing loath Am I to serve thee. Mine own hand is so The stronger, if I have this plea to show Thy persecutors: and for thee withal The bond more sure.--On what God shall I call? MEDEA. Swear by the Earth thou treadest, by the Sun, Sire of my sires, and all the gods as one. . . . AEGEUS. To do what thing or not do? Make all plain. MEDEA. Never thyself to cast me out again. Nor let another, whatsoe'er his plea, Take me, while thou yet livest and art free. AEGEUS. Never: so hear me, Earth, and the great star Of daylight, and all other gods that are! MEDEA. 'Tis well: and if thou falter from thy vow . . . ? AEGEUS. God's judgment on the godless break my brow! MEDEA. Go! Go thy ways rejoicing.--All is bright And clear before me. Go: and ere the night Myself will follow, when the deed is done I purpose, and the end I thirst for won. [AEGEUS _and his train depart_. CHORUS. Farewell: and Maia's guiding Son Back lead thee to thy hearth and fire, Aegeus; and all the long desire That wasteth thee, at last be won: Our eyes have seen thee as thou art, A gentle and a righteous heart. MEDEA. God, and God's Justice, and ye blinding Skies! At last the victory dawneth! Yea, mine eyes See, and my foot is on the mountain's brow. Mine enemies! Mine enemies, oh, now Atonement cometh! Here at my worst hour A friend is found, a very port of power To save my shipwreck. Here will I make fast Mine anchor, and escape them at the last In Athens' walled hill.--But ere the end 'Tis meet I show thee all my counsel, friend: Take it, no tale to make men laugh withal! Straightway to Jason I will send some thrall To entreat him to my presence. Comes he here, Then with soft reasons will I feed his ear, How his will now is my will, how all things Are well, touching this marriage-bed of kings For which I am betrayed--all wise and rare And profitable! Yet will I make one prayer, That my two children be no more exiled But stay. . . . Oh, not that I would leave a child Here upon angry shores till those have laughed Who hate me: 'tis that I will slay by craft The king's daughter. With gifts they shall be sent, Gifts to the bride to spare their banishment, Fine robings and a carcanet of gold. Which raiment let her once but take, and fold About her, a foul death that girl shall die And all who touch her in her agony. Such poison shall they drink, my robe and wreath! Howbeit, of that no more. I gnash my teeth Thinking on what a path my feet must tread Thereafter. I shall lay those children dead-- Mine, whom no hand shall steal from me away! Then, leaving Jason childless, and the day As night above him, I will go my road To exile, flying, flying from the blood Of these my best-beloved, and having wrought All horror, so but one thing reach me not, The laugh of them that hate us. Let it come! What profits life to me? I have no home, No country now, nor shield from any wrong. That was my evil hour, when down the long Halls of my father out I stole, my will Chained by a Greek man's voice, who still, oh, still, If God yet live, shall all requited be. For never child of mine shall Jason see Hereafter living, never child beget From his new bride, who this day, desolate Even as she made me desolate, shall die Shrieking amid my poisons. . . . Names have I Among your folk? One light? One weak of hand? An eastern dreamer?--Nay, but with the brand Of strange suns burnt, my hate, by God above, A perilous thing, and passing sweet my love! For these it is that make life glorious. LEADER. Since thou has bared thy fell intent to us I, loving thee, and helping in their need Man's laws, adjure thee, dream not of this deed! MEDEA. There is no other way.--I pardon thee Thy littleness, who art not wronged like me. LEADER. Thou canst not kill the fruit thy body bore! MEDEA. Yes: if the man I hate be pained the more. LEADER. And thou made miserable, most miserable? MEDEA. Oh, let it come! All words of good or ill Are wasted now. [_She claps her hands: the_ NURSE _comes out from the house_. Ho, woman; get thee gone And lead lord Jason hither. . . . There is none Like thee, to work me these high services. But speak no word of what my purpose is, As thou art faithful, thou, and bold to try All succours, and a woman even as I! [_The_ NURSE _departs_. * * * * * CHORUS. The sons of Erechtheus, the olden, Whom high gods planted of yore In an old land of heaven upholden, A proud land untrodden of war: They are hungered, and, lo, their desire With wisdom is fed as with meat: In their skies is a shining of fire, A joy in the fall of their feet: And thither, with manifold dowers, From the North, from the hills, from the morn, The Muses did gather their powers, That a child of the Nine should be born; And Harmony, sown as the flowers, Grew gold in the acres of corn. And Cephisus, the fair-flowing river-- The Cyprian dipping her hand Hath drawn of his dew, and the shiver Of her touch is as joy in the land. For her breathing in fragrance is written, And in music her path as she goes, And the cloud of her hair, it is litten With stars of the wind-woven rose. So fareth she ever and ever, And forth of her bosom is blown, As dews on the winds of the river, An hunger of passions unknown. Strong Loves of all godlike endeavour, Whom Wisdom shall throne on her throne. _Some Women._ But Cephisus the fair-flowing, Will he bear thee on his shore? Shall the land that succours all, succour thee, Who art foul among thy kind, With the tears of children blind? Dost thou see the red gash growing, Thine own burden dost thou see? Every side, Every way, Lo, we kneel to thee and pray: By thy knees, by thy soul, O woman wild! One at least thou canst not slay, Not thy child! _Others._ Hast thou ice that thou shalt bind it To thy breast, and make thee dead To thy children, to thine own spirit's pain? When the hand knows what it dares, When thine eyes look into theirs, Shalt thou keep by tears unblinded Thy dividing of the slain? These be deeds Not for thee: These be things that cannot be! Thy babes--though thine hardihood be fell, When they cling about thy knee, 'Twill be well! _Enter_ JASON. JASON. I answer to thy call. Though full of hate Thou be, I yet will not so far abate My kindness for thee, nor refuse mine ear. Say in what new desire thou hast called me here. MEDEA. Jason, I pray thee, for my words but now Spoken, forgive me. My bad moods. . . . Oh, thou At least wilt strive to bear with them! There be Many old deeds of love 'twixt me and thee. Lo, I have reasoned with myself apart And chidden: "Why must I be mad, O heart Of mine: and raging against one whose word Is wisdom: making me a thing abhorred To them that rule the land, and to mine own Husband, who doth but that which, being done, Will help us all--to wed a queen, and get Young kings for brethren to my sons? And yet I rage alone, and cannot quit my rage-- What aileth me?--when God sends harbourage So simple? Have I not my children? Know I not we are but exiles, and must go Beggared and friendless else?" Thought upon thought So pressed me, till I knew myself full-fraught With bitterness of heart and blinded eyes. So now--I give thee thanks: and hold thee wise To have caught this anchor for our aid. The fool Was I; who should have been thy friend, thy tool; Gone wooing with thee, stood at thy bed-side Serving, and welcomed duteously thy bride. But, as we are, we are--I will not say Mere evil--women! Why must thou to-day Turn strange, and make thee like some evil thing, Childish, to meet my childish passioning? See, I surrender: and confess that then I had bad thoughts, but now have turned again And found my wiser mind. [_She claps her hands._ Ho, children! Run Quickly! Come hither, out into the sun, [_The_ CHILDREN _come from the house, followed by their_ ATTENDANT. And greet your father. Welcome him with us, And throw quite, quite away, as mother does, Your anger against one so dear. Our peace Is made, and all the old bad war shall cease For ever.--Go, and take his hand. . . . [_As the_ CHILDREN _go to_ JASON, _she suddenly bursts into tears. The_ CHILDREN _quickly return to her: she recovers herself, smiling amid her tears_. Ah me, I am full of hidden horrors! . . . Shall it be A long time more, my children, that ye live To reach to me those dear, dear arms? . . . Forgive! I am so ready with my tears to-day, And full of dread. . . . I sought to smooth away The long strife with your father, and, lo, now I have all drowned with tears this little brow! [_She wipes the child's face._ LEADER. O'er mine eyes too there stealeth a pale tear: Let the evil rest, O God, let it rest here! JASON. Woman, indeed I praise thee now, nor say Ill of thine other hour. 'Tis nature's way, A woman needs must stir herself to wrath, When work of marriage by so strange a path Crosseth her lord. But thou, thine heart doth wend The happier road. Thou hast seen, ere quite the end, What choice must needs be stronger: which to do Shows a wise-minded woman. . . . And for you, Children; your father never has forgot Your needs. If God but help him, he hath wrought A strong deliverance for your weakness. Yea, I think you, with your brethren, yet one day Shall be the mightiest voices in this land. Do you grow tall and strong. Your father's hand Guideth all else, and whatso power divine Hath alway helped him. . . . Ah, may it be mine To see you yet in manhood, stern of brow, Strong-armed, set high o'er those that hate me. . . . How? Woman, thy face is turned. Thy cheek is swept With pallor of strange tears. Dost not accept Gladly and of good will my benisons? MEDEA. 'Tis nothing. Thinking of these little ones. . . . JASON. Take heart, then. I will guard them from all ill. MEDEA. I do take heart. Thy word I never will Mistrust. Alas, a woman's bosom bears But woman's courage, a thing born for tears. JASON. What ails thee?--All too sore thou weepest there. MEDEA. I was their mother! When I heard thy prayer Of long life for them, there swept over me A horror, wondering how these things shall be. But for the matter of my need that thou Should speak with me, part I have said, and now Will finish.--Seeing it is the king's behest To cast me out from Corinth . . . aye, and best, Far best, for me--I know it--not to stay Longer to trouble thee and those who sway The realm, being held to all their house a foe. . . . Behold, I spread my sails, and meekly go To exile. But our children. . . . Could this land Be still their home awhile: could thine own hand But guide their boyhood. . . . Seek the king, and pray His pity, that he bid thy children stay! JASON. He is hard to move. Yet surely 'twere well done. MEDEA. Bid her--for thy sake, for a daughters boon. . . . JASON. Well thought! Her I can fashion to my mind. MEDEA. Surely. She is a woman like her kind. . . . Yet I will aid thee in thy labour; I Will send her gifts, the fairest gifts that lie In the hands of men, things of the days of old, Fine robings and a carcanet of gold, By the boys' hands.--Go, quick, some handmaiden, And fetch the raiment. [_A handmaid goes into the house._ Ah, her cup shall then Be filled indeed! What more should woman crave, Being wed with thee, the bravest of the brave, And girt with raiment which of old the sire Of all my house, the Sun, gave, steeped in fire, To his own fiery race? [_The handmaid has returned bearing the Gifts._ Come, children, lift With heed these caskets. Bear them as your gift To her, being bride and princess and of right Blessed!--I think she will not hold them light. JASON. Fond woman, why wilt empty thus thine hand Of treasure? Doth King Creon's castle stand In stint of raiment, or in stint of gold? Keep these, and make no gift. For if she hold Jason of any worth at all, I swear Chattels like these will not weigh more with her. MEDEA. Ah, chide me not! 'Tis written, gifts persuade The gods in heaven; and gold is stronger made Than words innumerable to bend men's ways. Fortune is hers. God maketh great her days: Young and a crowned queen! And banishment For those two babes. . . . I would not gold were spent, But life's blood, ere that come. My children, go Forth into those rich halls, and, bowing low, Beseech your father's bride, whom I obey, Ye be not, of her mercy, cast away Exiled: and give the caskets--above all Mark this!--to none but her, to hold withal And keep. . . . Go quick! And let your mother know Soon the good tiding that she longs for. . . . Go! [_She goes quickly into the house._ JASON _and the_ CHILDREN _with their_ ATTENDANT _depart_. * * * * * CHORUS. Now I have no hope more of the children's living; No hope more. They are gone forth unto death. The bride, she taketh the poison of their giving: She taketh the bounden gold and openeth; And the crown, the crown, she lifteth about her brow, Where the light brown curls are clustering. No hope now! O sweet and cloudy gleam of the garments golden! The robe, it hath clasped her breast and the crown her head. Then, then, she decketh the bride, as a bride of olden Story, that goeth pale to the kiss of the dead. For the ring hath closed, and the portion of death is there; And she flieth not, but perisheth unaware. _Some Women._ O bridegroom, bridegroom of the kiss so cold, Art thou wed with princes, art thou girt with gold, Who know'st not, suing For thy child's undoing, And, on her thou lovest, for a doom untold? How art thou fallen from thy place of old! _Others._ O Mother, Mother, what hast thou to reap, When the harvest cometh, between wake and sleep? For a heart unslaken, For a troth forsaken, Lo, babes that call thee from a bloody deep: And thy love returns not. Get thee forth and weep! [_Enter the_ ATTENDANT _with the two_ CHILDREN: MEDEA _comes out from the house_. ATTENDANT. Mistress, these children from their banishment Are spared. The royal bride hath mildly bent Her hand to accept thy gifts, and all is now Peace for the children.--Ha, why standest thou Confounded, when good fortune draweth near? MEDEA. Ah God! ATTENDANT. This chimes not with the news I bear. MEDEA. O God, have mercy! ATTENDANT. Is some word of wrath Here hidden that I knew not of? And hath My hope to give thee joy so cheated me? MEDEA. Thou givest what thou givest: I blame not thee. ATTENDANT. Thy brows are all o'ercast: thine eyes are filled. . . . MEDEA. For bitter need, Old Man! The gods have willed, And my own evil mind, that this should come. ATTENDANT. Take heart! Thy sons one day will bring thee home. MEDEA. Home? . . . I have others to send home. Woe's me! ATTENDANT. Be patient. Many a mother before thee Hath parted from her children. We poor things Of men must needs endure what fortune brings. MEDEA. I will endure.--Go thou within, and lay All ready that my sons may need to-day. [_The_ ATTENDANT _goes into the house_. O children, children mine: and you have found A land and home, where, leaving me discrowned And desolate, forever you will stay, Motherless children! And I go my way To other lands, an exile, ere you bring Your fruits home, ere I see you prospering Or know your brides, or deck the bridal bed, All flowers, and lift your torches overhead. Oh cursed be mine own hard heart! 'Twas all In vain, then, that I reared you up, so tall And fair; in vain I bore you, and was torn With those long pitiless pains, when you were born. Ah, wondrous hopes my poor heart had in you, How you would tend me in mine age, and do The shroud about me with your own dear hands, When I lay cold, blessed in all the lands That knew us. And that gentle thought is dead! You go, and I live on, to eat the bread Of long years, to myself most full of pain. And never your dear eyes, never again, Shall see your mother, far away being thrown To other shapes of life. . . . My babes, my own, Why gaze ye so?--What is it that ye see?-- And laugh with that last laughter? . . . Woe is me, What shall I do? Women, my strength is gone, Gone like a dream, since once I looked upon Those shining faces. . . . I can do it not. Good-bye to all the thoughts that burned so hot Aforetime! I will take and hide them far, Far, from men's eyes. Why should I seek a war So blind: by these babes' wounds to sting again Their father's heart, and win myself a pain Twice deeper? Never, never! I forget Henceforward all I laboured for. And yet, What is it with me? Would I be a thing Mocked at, and leave mine enemies to sting Unsmitten? It must be. O coward heart, Ever to harbour such soft words!--Depart Out of my sight, ye twain. [_The_ CHILDREN _go in_. And they whose eyes Shall hold it sin to share my sacrifice, On their heads be it! My hand shall swerve not now. Ah, Ah, thou Wrath within me! Do not thou, Do not. . . . Down, down, thou tortured thing, and spare My children! They will dwell with us, aye, there Far off, and give thee peace. Too late, too late! By all Hell's living agonies of hate, They shall not take my little ones alive To make their mock with! Howsoe'er I strive The thing is doomed; it shall not escape now From being. Aye, the crown is on the brow, And the robe girt, and in the robe that high Queen dying. I know all. Yet . . . seeing that I Must go so long a journey, and these twain A longer yet and darker, I would fain Speak with them, ere I go. [_A handmaid brings the_ CHILDREN _out again_. Come, children; stand A little from me. There. Reach out your hand, Your right hand--so--to mother: and good-bye! [_She has kept them hitherto at arm's length: but at the touch of their hands, her resolution breaks down, and she gathers them passionately into her arms._ Oh, darling hand! Oh, darling mouth, and eye, And royal mien, and bright brave faces clear, May you be blessed, but not here! What here Was yours, your father stole. . . . Ah God, the glow Of cheek on cheek, the tender touch; and Oh, Sweet scent of childhood. . . . Go! Go! . . . Am I blind? . . . Mine eyes can see not, when I look to find Their places. I am broken by the wings Of evil. . . . Yea, I know to what bad things I go, but louder than all thought doth cry Anger, which maketh man's worst misery. [_She follows the_ CHILDREN _into the house_. CHORUS. My thoughts have roamed a cloudy land, And heard a fierier music fall Than woman's heart should stir withal: And yet some Muse majestical, Unknown, hath hold of woman's hand, Seeking for Wisdom--not in all: A feeble seed, a scattered band, Thou yet shalt find in lonely places, Not dead amongst us, nor our faces Turned alway from the Muses' call. And thus my thought would speak: that she Who ne'er hath borne a child nor known Is nearer to felicity: Unlit she goeth and alone, With little understanding what A child's touch means of joy or woe, And many toils she beareth not. But they within whose garden fair That gentle plant hath blown, they go Deep-written all their days with care-- To rear the children, to make fast Their hold, to win them wealth; and then Much darkness, if the seed at last Bear fruit in good or evil men! And one thing at the end of all Abideth, that which all men dread: The wealth is won, the limbs are bred To manhood, and the heart withal Honest: and, lo, where Fortune smiled, Some change, and what hath fallen? Hark! 'Tis death slow winging to the dark, And in his arms what was thy child. What therefore doth it bring of gain To man, whose cup stood full before, That God should send this one thing more Of hunger and of dread, a door Set wide to every wind of pain? [MEDEA _comes out alone from the house_. MEDEA. Friends, this long hour I wait on Fortune's eyes, And strain my senses in a hot surmise What passeth on that hill.--Ha! even now There comes . . . 'tis one of Jason's men, I trow. His wild-perturbed breath doth warrant me The tidings of some strange calamity. [_Enter_ MESSENGER. MESSENGER. O dire and ghastly deed! Get thee away, Medea! Fly! Nor let behind thee stay One chariot's wing, one keel that sweeps the seas. . . . MEDEA. And what hath chanced, to cause such flights as these? MESSENGER. The maiden princess lieth--and her sire, The king--both murdered by thy poison-fire. MEDEA. Most happy tiding! Which thy name prefers Henceforth among my friends and well-wishers. MESSENGER. What say'st thou? Woman, is thy mind within Clear, and not raving? Thou art found in sin Most bloody wrought against the king's high head, And laughest at the tale, and hast no dread? MEDEA. I have words also that could answer well Thy word. But take thine ease, good friend, and tell, How died they? Hath it been a very foul Death, prithee? That were comfort to my soul. MESSENGER. When thy two children, hand in hand entwined, Came with their father, and passed on to find The new-made bridal rooms, Oh, we were glad, We thralls, who ever loved thee well, and had Grief in thy grief. And straight there passed a word From ear to ear, that thou and thy false lord Had poured peace offering upon wrath foregone. A right glad welcome gave we them, and one Kissed the small hand, and one the shining hair: Myself, for very joy, I followed where The women's rooms are. There our mistress . . . she Whom now we name so . . . thinking not to see Thy little pair, with glad and eager brow Sate waiting Jason. Then she saw, and slow Shrouded her eyes, and backward turned again, Sick that thy children should come near her. Then Thy husband quick went forward, to entreat The young maid's fitful wrath. "Thou will not meet Love's coming with unkindness? Nay, refrain Thy suddenness, and turn thy face again, Holding as friends all that to me are dear, Thine husband. And accept these robes they bear As gifts: and beg thy father to unmake His doom of exile on them--for my sake." When once she saw the raiment, she could still Her joy no more, but gave him all his will. And almost ere the father and the two Children were gone from out the room, she drew The flowered garments forth, and sate her down To her arraying: bound the golden crown Through her long curls, and in a mirror fair Arranged their separate clusters, smiling there At the dead self that faced her. Then aside She pushed her seat, and paced those chambers wide Alone, her white foot poising delicately-- So passing joyful in those gifts was she!-- And many a time would pause, straight-limbed, and wheel Her head to watch the long fold to her heel Sweeping. And then came something strange. Her cheek Seemed pale, and back with crooked steps and weak Groping of arms she walked, and scarcely found Her old seat, that she fell not to the ground. Among the handmaids was a woman old And grey, who deemed, I think, that Pan had hold Upon her, or some spirit, and raised a keen Awakening shout; till through her lips was seen A white foam crawling, and her eyeballs back Twisted, and all her face dead pale for lack Of life: and while that old dame called, the cry Turned strangely to its opposite, to die Sobbing. Oh, swiftly then one woman flew To seek her father's rooms, one for the new Bridegroom, to tell the tale. And all the place Was loud with hurrying feet. So long a space As a swift walker on a measured way Would pace a furlong's course in, there she lay Speechless, with veiled lids. Then wide her eyes She oped, and wildly, as she strove to rise, Shrieked: for two diverse waves upon her rolled Of stabbing death. The carcanet of gold That gripped her brow was molten in a dire And wondrous river of devouring fire. And those fine robes, the gift thy children gave-- God's mercy!--everywhere did lap and lave The delicate flesh; till up she sprang, and fled, A fiery pillar, shaking locks and head This way and that, seeking to cast the crown Somewhere away. But like a thing nailed down The burning gold held fast the anadem, And through her locks, the more she scattered them, Came fire the fiercer, till to earth she fell A thing--save to her sire--scarce nameable, And strove no more. That cheek of royal mien, Where was it--or the place where eyes had been? Only from crown and temples came faint blood Shot through with fire. The very flesh, it stood Out from the bones, as from a wounded pine The gum starts, where those gnawing poisons fine Bit in the dark--a ghastly sight! And touch The dead we durst not. We had seen too much. But that poor father, knowing not, had sped, Swift to his daughter's room, and there the dead Lay at his feet. He knelt, and groaning low, Folded her in his arms, and kissed her: "Oh, Unhappy child, what thing unnatural hath So hideously undone thee? Or what wrath Of gods, to make this old grey sepulchre Childless of thee? Would God but lay me there To die with thee, my daughter!" So he cried. But after, when he stayed from tears, and tried To uplift his old bent frame, lo, in the folds Of those fine robes it held, as ivy holds Strangling among your laurel boughs. Oh, then A ghastly struggle came! Again, again, Up on his knee he writhed; but that dead breast Clung still to his: till, wild, like one possessed, He dragged himself half free; and, lo, the live Flesh parted; and he laid him down to strive No more with death, but perish; for the deep Had risen above his soul. And there they sleep, At last, the old proud father and the bride, Even as his tears had craved it, side by side. For thee--Oh, no word more! Thyself will know How best to baffle vengeance. . . . Long ago I looked upon man's days, and found a grey Shadow. And this thing more I surely say, That those of all men who are counted wise, Strong wits, devisers of great policies, Do pay the bitterest toll. Since life began, Hath there in God's eye stood one happy man? Fair days roll on, and bear more gifts or less Of fortune, but to no man happiness. [_Exit_ MESSENGER. CHORUS. _Some Women._ Wrath upon wrath, meseems, this day shall fall From God on Jason! He hath earned it all. _Other Women._ O miserable maiden, all my heart Is torn for thee, so sudden to depart From thy king's chambers and the light above To darkness, all for sake of Jason's love! MEDEA. Women, my mind is clear. I go to slay My children with all speed, and then, away From hence; not wait yet longer till they stand Beneath another and an angrier hand To die. Yea, howsoe'er I shield them, die They must. And, seeing that they must, 'tis I Shall slay them, I their mother, touched of none Beside. Oh, up and get thine armour on, My heart! Why longer tarry we to win Our crown of dire inevitable sin? Take up thy sword, O poor right hand of mine, Thy sword: then onward to the thin-drawn line Where life turns agony. Let there be naught Of softness now: and keep thee from that thought, 'Born of thy flesh,' 'thine own beloved.' Now, For one brief day, forget thy children: thou Shalt weep hereafter. Though thou slay them, yet Sweet were they. . . . I am sore unfortunate. [_She goes into the house._ CHORUS. _Some Women._ O Earth, our mother; and thou All-seer, arrowy crown Of Sunlight, manward now Look down, Oh, look down! Look upon one accurst, Ere yet in blood she twine Red hands--blood that is thine! O Sun, save her first! She is thy daughter still, Of thine own golden line; Save her! Or shall man spill The life divine? Give peace, O Fire that diest not! Send thy spell To stay her yet, to lift her afar, afar-- A torture-changed spirit, a voice of Hell Wrought of old wrongs and war! _Others._ Alas for the mother's pain Wasted! Alas the dear Life that was born in vain! Woman, what mak'st thou here, Thou from beyond the Gate Where dim Symplegades Clash in the dark blue seas, The shores where death doth wait? Why hast thou taken on thee, To make us desolate, This anger of misery And guilt of hate? For fierce are the smitings back of blood once shed Where love hath been: God's wrath upon them that kill, And an anguished earth, and the wonder of the dead Haunting as music still. . . . [_A cry is heard within._ _A Woman._ Hark! Did ye hear? Heard ye the children's cry? _Another._ O miserable woman! O abhorred! _A Child within._ What shall I do? What is it? Keep me fast From mother! _The Other Child._ I know nothing. Brother! Oh, I think she means to kill us. _A Woman._ Let me go! I will--Help! Help!--and save them at the last. _A Child._ Yes, in God's name! Help quickly ere we die! _The Other Child._ She has almost caught me now. She has a sword. [_Many of the Women are now beating at the barred door to get in. Others are standing apart._ _Women at the door._ Thou stone, thou thing of iron! Wilt verily Spill with thine hand that life, the vintage stored Of thine own agony? _The Other Women._ A Mother slew her babes in days of yore, One, only one, from dawn to eventide, Ino, god-maddened, whom the Queen of Heaven Set frenzied, flying to the dark: and she Cast her for sorrow to the wide salt sea, Forth from those rooms of murder unforgiven, Wild-footed from a white crag of the shore, And clasping still her children twain, she died. O Love of Woman, charged with sorrow sore, What hast thou wrought upon us? What beside Resteth to tremble for? [_Enter hurriedly_ JASON _and Attendants_. JASON. Ye women by this doorway clustering Speak, is the doer of the ghastly thing Yet here, or fled? What hopeth she of flight? Shall the deep yawn to shield her? Shall the height Send wings, and hide her in the vaulted sky To work red murder on her lords, and fly Unrecompensed? But let her go! My care Is but to save my children, not for her. Let them she wronged requite her as they may. I care not. 'Tis my sons I must some way Save, ere the kinsmen of the dead can win From them the payment of their mother's sin. LEADER. Unhappy man, indeed thou knowest not What dark place thou art come to! Else, God wot, Jason, no word like these could fall from thee. JASON. What is it?--Ha! The woman would kill me? LEADER. Thy sons are dead, slain by their mother's hand. JASON. How? Not the children. . . . I scarce understand. . . . O God, thou hast broken me! LEADER. Think of those twain As things once fair, that ne'er shall bloom again. JASON. Where did she murder them? In that old room? LEADER. Open, and thou shalt see thy children's doom. JASON. Ho, thralls! Unloose me yonder bars! Make more Of speed! Wrench out the jointing of the door. And show my two-edged curse, the children dead, The woman. . . . Oh, this sword upon her head. . . . [_While the Attendants are still battering at the door_ MEDEA _appears on the roof, standing on a chariot of winged Dragons, in which are the children's bodies_. MEDEA. What make ye at my gates? Why batter ye With brazen bars, seeking the dead and me Who slew them? Peace! . . . And thou, if aught of mine Thou needest, speak, though never touch of thine Shall scathe me more. Out of his firmament My fathers' father, the high Sun, hath sent This, that shall save me from mine enemies' rage. JASON. Thou living hate! Thou wife in every age Abhorred, blood-red mother, who didst kill My sons, and make me as the dead: and still Canst take the sunshine to thine eyes, and smell The green earth, reeking from thy deed of hell; I curse thee! Now, Oh, now mine eyes can see, That then were blinded, when from savagery Of eastern chambers, from a cruel land, To Greece and home I gathered in mine hand Thee, thou incarnate curse: one that betrayed Her home, her father, her . . . Oh, God hath laid Thy sins on me!--I knew, I knew, there lay A brother murdered on thy hearth that day When thy first footstep fell on Argo's hull. . . . Argo, my own, my swift and beautiful That was her first beginning. Then a wife I made her in my house. She bore to life Children: and now for love, for chambering And men's arms, she hath murdered them! A thing Not one of all the maids of Greece, not one, Had dreamed of; whom I spurned, and for mine own Chose thee, a bride of hate to me and death, Tigress, not woman, beast of wilder breath Than Skylla shrieking o'er the Tuscan sea. Enough! No scorn of mine can reach to thee, Such iron is o'er thine eyes. Out from my road, Thou crime-begetter, blind with children's blood! And let me weep alone the bitter tide That sweepeth Jason's days, no gentle bride To speak with more, no child to look upon Whom once I reared . . . all, all for ever gone! MEDEA. An easy answer had I to this swell Of speech, but Zeus our father knoweth well, All I for thee have wrought, and thou for me. So let it rest. This thing was not to be, That thou shouldst live a merry life, my bed Forgotten and my heart uncomforted, Thou nor thy princess: nor the king that planned Thy marriage drive Medea from his land, And suffer not. Call me what thing thou please, Tigress or Skylla from the Tuscan seas: My claws have gripped thine heart, and all things shine. JASON. Thou too hast grief. Thy pain is fierce as mine. MEDEA. I love the pain, so thou shalt laugh no more. JASON. Oh, what a womb of sin my children bore! MEDEA. Sons, did ye perish for your father's shame? JASON. How? It was not my hand that murdered them. MEDEA. 'Twas thy false wooings, 'twas thy trampling pride. JASON. Thou hast said it! For thy lust of love they died. MEDEA. And love to women a slight thing should be? JASON. To women pure!--All thy vile life to thee! MEDEA. Think of thy torment. They are dead, they are dead! JASON. No: quick, great God; quick curses round thy head! MEDEA. The Gods know who began this work of woe. JASON. Thy heart and all its loathliness they know. MEDEA. Loathe on. . . . But, Oh, thy voice. It hurts me sore. JASON. Aye, and thine me. Wouldst hear me then no more? MEDEA. How? Show me but the way. 'Tis this I crave. JASON. Give me the dead to weep, and make their grave. MEDEA. Never! Myself will lay them in a still Green sepulchre, where Hera by the Hill Hath precinct holy, that no angry men May break their graves and cast them forth again To evil. So I lay on all this shore Of Corinth a high feast for evermore And rite, to purge them yearly of the stain Of this poor blood. And I, to Pallas' plain I go, to dwell beside Pandion's son, Aegeus.--For thee, behold, death draweth on, Evil and lonely, like thine heart: the hands Of thine old Argo, rotting where she stands, Shall smite thine head in twain, and bitter be To the last end thy memories of me. [_She rises on the chariot and is slowly borne away._ JASON. May They that hear the weeping child Blast thee, and They that walk in blood! MEDEA. Thy broken vows, thy friends beguiled Have shut for thee the ears of God. JASON. Go, thou art wet with children's tears! MEDEA. Go thou, and lay thy bride to sleep. JASON. Childless, I go, to weep and weep. MEDEA. Not yet! Age cometh and long years. JASON. My sons, mine own! MEDEA. Not thine, but mine . . . JASON. . . . Who slew them! MEDEA. Yes: to torture thee. JASON. Once let me kiss their lips, once twine Mine arms and touch. . . . Ah, woe is me! MEDEA. Wouldst love them and entreat? But now They were as nothing. JASON. At the last, O God, to touch that tender brow! MEDEA. Thy words upon the wind are cast. JASON. Thou, Zeus, wilt hear me. All is said For naught. I am but spurned away And trampled by this tigress, red With children's blood. Yet, come what may, So far as thou hast granted, yea, So far as yet my strength may stand, I weep upon these dead, and say Their last farewell, and raise my hand To all the daemons of the air In witness of these things; how she Who slew them, will not suffer me To gather up my babes, nor bear To earth their bodies; whom, O stone Of women, would I ne'er had known Nor gotten, to be slain by thee! [_He casts himself upon the earth._ CHORUS. Great treasure halls hath Zeus in heaven, From whence to man strange dooms be given, Past hope or fear. And the end men looked for cometh not, And a path is there where no man thought: So hath it fallen here. NOTES TO MEDEA P. 3, l. 2, To Colchis through the blue Symplegades.]--The Symplegades ("Clashing") or Kuaneai ("Dark blue") were two rocks in the sea which used to clash together and crush anything that was between them. They stood above the north end of the Bosphorus and formed the Gate (l. 1264, p. 70) to the Axeinos Pontos, or "Stranger-less Sea," where all Greeks were murdered. At the farthest eastern end of that sea was the land of Colchis. P. 3, l. 3, Pelion.]--The great mountain in Thessaly. Iolcos, a little kingdom between Pelion and the sea, ruled originally by Aeson, Jason's father, then by the usurping Pelias. P. 3, l. 9, Daughters of Pelias.]--See Introduction, p. vii. P. 4, l. 18, Wed.]--Medea was not legally married to Jason, and could not be, though in common parlance he is sometimes called her husband. Intermarriage between the subjects of two separate states was not possible in antiquity without a special treaty. And naturally there was no such treaty with Colchis. This is, I think, the view of the play, and corresponds to the normal Athenian conceptions of society. In the original legend it is likely enough that Medea belongs to "matriarchal" times before the institution of marriage. P. 4, l. 18, Head of Corinth.]--A peculiar word ([Greek: aisumnan]) afterwards used to translate the Roman _dictator_. Creon is, however, apparently descended from the ancient king Sisyphus. P. 4, l. 40, She hath a blade made keen, &c.]--These lines (40, 41) are repeated in a different context later on, p. 23, ll. 379, 380. The sword which to the Nurse suggested suicide was really meant for murder. There is a similar and equally dramatic repetition of the lines about the crown and wreath (786, 949, pp. 46, 54), and of those about the various characters popularly attributed to Medea (ll. 304, 808, pp. 18, 46). P. 5, l. 48, ATTENDANT.]--Greek _Paidagogos_, or "pedagogue"; a confidential servant who escorted the boys to and from school, and in similar ways looked after them. Notice the rather light and cynical character of this man, compared with the tenderness of the Nurse. P. 5, l. 57, To this still earth and sky.]--Not a mere stage explanation. It was the ancient practice, if you had bad dreams or terrors of the night, to "show" them to the Sun in the morning, that he might clear them away. P. 8, l. 111, Have I not suffered?]--Medea is apparently answering some would-be comforter. Cf. p. 4. ("If friends will speak," &c.) P. 9, l. 131, CHORUS.]--As Dr. Verrall has remarked, the presence of the Chorus is in this play unusually awkward from the dramatic point of view. Medea's plot demands most absolute secrecy; and it is incredible that fifteen Corinthian women, simply because they were women, should allow a half-mad foreigner to murder several people, including their own Corinthian king and princess--who was a woman also--rather than reveal her plot. We must remember in palliation (1) that these women belong to the faction in Corinth which was friendly to Medea and hostile to Creon; (2) that the appeal to them as women had more force in antiquity than it would now, and the princess had really turned traitor to her sex. (See note on this subject at the end of the present writer's translation of the _Electra_.) (3) The non-interference of the Chorus seems monstrous: yet in ancient times, when law was weak and punishment was chiefly the concern of the injured persons, and of no one else, the reluctance of bystanders to interfere was much greater than it is now in an ordered society. Some oriental countries, and perhaps even California or Texas, could afford us some startling instances of impassiveness among bystanders. P. 12, l. 167, Oh, wild words!]--The Nurse breaks in, hoping to drown her mistress's dangerous self-betrayal. Medea's murder of her brother (see Introduction, p. vi) was by ordinary standards her worst act, and seems not to have been known in Corinth. It forms the climax of Jason's denunciation, l. 1334, p. 74. P. 13, l. 190, Alas, the brave blithe bards, &c.]--Who is the speaker? According to the MSS. the Nurse, and there is some difficulty in taking the lines from her. Yet (1) she has no reason to sing a song outside after saying that she is going in; and (2) it is quite necessary that she should take a little time indoors persuading Medea to come out. The words seem to suit the lips of an impersonal Chorus. The general sense of the poem is interesting. It is an apology for tragedy. It gives the tragic poet's conception of the place of his art in the service of humanity, as against the usual feeling of the public, whose serious work is devoted to something else, and who "go to a play to be amused." P. 14, l. 214, Women of Corinth, I am come, &c.]--These opening lines are a well-known _crux interpretum_. It is interesting to note, (1) that the Roman poet Ennius (ca. 200 B.C.) who translated the _Medea_, did not understand them in the least; while, on the other hand, the earliest Greek commentators seem not to have noticed that there was any difficulty in them worth commenting upon. That implies that while the acting tradition was alive and unbroken, the lines were easily understood; but when once the tradition failed, the meaning was lost. (The first commentator who deals with the passage is Irenaeus, a scholar of the Augustan time.) P. 15, l. 231, A herb most bruised is woman.]--This fine statement of the wrongs of women in Athens doubtless contains a great deal of the poet's own mind; but from the dramatic point of view it is justified in several ways. (1) Medea is seeking for a common ground on which to appeal to the Corinthian women. (2) She herself is now in the position of all others in which a woman is most hardly treated as compared with a man. (3) Besides this, one can see that, being a person of great powers and vehement will, she feels keenly her lack of outlet. If she had men's work to do, she could be a hero: debarred from proper action (from [Greek: to prassein], _Hip._ 1019) she is bound to make mischief. Cf. p. 24, ll. 408, 409. "Things most vain, &c." There is a slight anachronism in applying the Attic system of doweries to primitive times. Medea's contemporaries either lived in a "matriarchal" system without any marriage, or else were bought by their husbands for so many cows. P. 17, l. 271, CREON.]--Observe the somewhat archaic abruptness of this scene, a sign of the early date of the play. P. 18, l. 295, Wise beyond men's wont.]--Medea was a "wise woman" which in her time meant much the same as a witch or enchantress. She did really know more than other women; but most of this extra knowledge consisted--or was supposed to consist--either in lore of poisons and charms, or in useless learning and speculation. P. 18, l. 304, A seed of strife, an Eastern dreamer, &c.]--The meaning of these various "ill names" is not certain. Cf. l. 808, p. 46. Most scholars take [Greek: thaterou tropou] ("of the other sort") to mean "the opposite of a dreamer." P. 20, ll. 333-4, What would I with thy pains?]--A conceit almost in the Elizabethan style, as if by taking "pains" away from Creon, she would have them herself. P. 20, l. 335, Not that! Not that!]--Observe what a dislike Medea has of being touched: cf. l. 370 ("my flesh been never stained," &c.) and l. 496 ("poor, poor right hand of mine!"), pp. 22, and 28. P. 22, l. 364, Defeat on every side.]--Observe (1) that in this speech Medea's vengeance is to take the form of a clear fight to the death against the three guilty persons. It is both courageous and, judged by the appropriate standard, just. (2) She wants to save her own life, not from cowardice, but simply to make her revenge more complete. To kill her enemies and escape is victory. To kill them and die with them is only a drawn battle. Other enemies will live and "laugh." (3) Already in this first soliloquy there is a suggestion of that strain of madness which becomes unmistakable later on in the play. ("Oh, I have tried so many thoughts of murder," &c., and especially the lashing of her own fury, "Awake thee now, Medea.") P. 24, l. 405, Thief's daughter: lit. "a child of Sisyphus."]--Sisyphus, an ancient king of Corinth, was one of the well-known sinners punished in Tartarus. Medea's father, Aietes, was a brother of Circe, and born of the Sun. P. 24, l. 409, Things most vain for help.]--See on ll. 230 ff. P. 24. ll. 410-430, CHORUS.]--The song celebrates the coming triumph of Woman in her rebellion against Man; not by any means Woman as typifying the domestic virtues, but rather as the downtrodden, uncivilised, unreasoning, and fiercely emotional half of humanity. A woman who in defence of her honour and her rights will die sword in hand, slaying the man who wronged her, seems to the Chorus like a deliverer of the whole sex. P. 24. l. 421, Old bards.]--Early literature in most countries contains a good deal of heavy satire on women: _e.g._ Hesiod's "Who trusts a woman trusts a thief;" or Phocylides' "Two days of a woman are very sweet: when you marry her and when you carry her to her grave." It is curious how the four main Choruses of the _Medea_ are divided each into two parts, distinct in subject and in metre. P. 25, l. 439, Faith is no more sweet.]--Copied from a beautiful passage in Hesiod, _Works and Days_, 198 ff.: "There shall be no more sweetness found in the faithful man nor the righteous. . . . And at last up to Olympus from the wide-wayed earth, shrouding with white raiment their beautiful faces, go Ruth and Rebuking." (Aidos and Nemesis: _i.e._ the Ruth or Shame that you feel with reference to your own actions, and the Indignation or Disapproval that others feel.) P. 27, ll. 478 ff., Bulls of fiery breath.]--Among the tasks set him by Aietes, Jason had to yoke two fire-breathing bulls, and plough with them a certain Field of Ares, sow the field with dragon's teeth, and reap a harvest of earth-born or giant warriors which sprang from the seed. When all this was done, there remained the ancient serpent coiled round the tree where the Golden Fleece was hanging. P. 29, l. 507, The first friends who sheltered me.]--_i.e._ the kindred of Pelias. P. 29, l. 509, Blest of many a maid in Hellas.]--Jason was, of course, the great romantic hero of his time. Cf. his own words, l. 1340, p. 74. Pp. 29 ff., ll. 523-575.--Jason's defence is made the weaker by his reluctance to be definitely insulting to Medea. He dares not say: "You think that, because you conceived a violent passion for me,--to which, I admit, I partly responded--I must live with you always; but the truth is, you are a savage with whom a civilised man cannot go on living." This point comes out unveiled in his later speech, l. 1329, ff., p. 74. P. 30, ll. 536 ff., Our ordered life and justice.]--Jason has brought the benefits of civilisation to Medea! He is doubtless sincere, but the peculiar ironic cruelty of the plea is obvious. P. 30, ll. 541 ff., The story of Great Medea, &c. . . . Unless our deeds have glory.]--This, I think, is absolutely sincere. To Jason ambition is everything. And, as Medea has largely shared his great deeds with him, he thinks that she cannot but feel the same. It seems to him contemptible that her mere craving for personal love should outweigh all the possible glories of life. P. 31, l. 565, What more need hast thou of children?]--He only means, "of more children than you now have." But the words suggest to Medea a different meaning, and sow in her mind the first seed of the child-murder. See on the Aegeus scene below. P. 34, l. 608, A living curse.]--Though she spoke no word, the existence of a being so deeply wronged would be a curse on her oppressors. So a murdered man's blood, or an involuntary cry of pain (Aesch. _Ag._ 237) on the part of an injured person is in itself fraught with a curse. P. 35. ll. 627-641, CHORUS. Alas, the Love, &c.]--A highly characteristic Euripidean poem, keenly observant of fact, yet with a lyrical note penetrating all its realism. A love which really produces "good to man and glory," is treated in the next chorus, l. 844 ff., p. 49. Pp. 37 ff., ll. 663-759, AEGEUS.]--This scene is generally considered to be a mere blot on the play, not, I think, justly. It is argued that the obvious purpose which the scene serves, the provision of an asylum for Medea, has no keen dramatic interest. The spectator would just as soon, or sooner, have her die. And, besides, her actual mode of escape is largely independent of Aegeus. Further, the arrival of Aegeus at this moment seems to be a mere coincidence (_Ar. Poetics_, 61 b, 23), and one cannot help suspecting that the Athenian poet was influenced by mere local interests in dragging in the Athenian king and the praises of Athens where they were not specially appropriate. To these criticisms one may make some answer. (1) As to the coincidence, it is important to remember always that Greek tragedies are primarily historical plays, not works of fiction. They are based on definite _Logoi_ or traditions (_Frogs_, l. 1052. p. 254) and therefore can, and should, represent accidental coincidences when it was a datum of the tradition that these coincidences actually happened. By Aristotle's time the practice had changed. The tragedies of his age were essentially fiction; and he tends to criticise the ancient tragedies by fictional standards. Now it was certainly a datum in the Medea legend that she took refuge with Aegeus, King of Athens, and was afterwards an enemy to his son Theseus; but I think we may go further. This play pretty certainly has for its foundation the rites performed by the Corinthians at the Grave of the Children of Medea in the precinct of Hera Acraia near Corinth. See on l. 1379. p. 77. The legend in such cases is usually invented to explain the ritual; and I suspect that in the ritual, and, consequently, in the legend, there were two other data: first, a pursuit of Medea and her flight on a dragon-chariot, and, secondly, a meeting between Medea and Aegeus. (Both subjects are frequent on vase paintings, and may well be derived from historical pictures in some temple at Corinth.) Thus, the meeting with Aegeus is probably not the free invention of Euripides, but one of the data supplied to him by his subject. But he has made it serve, as von Arnim was the first to perceive, a remarkable dramatic purpose. Aegeus was under a curse of childlessness, and his desolate condition suggests to Medea the ultimate form of her vengeance. She will make Jason childless. Cf. l. 670, "Children! Ah God, art childless?" (A childless king in antiquity was a miserable object: likely to be deposed and dishonoured, and to miss his due worship after death. See the fragments of Euripides' _Oineus_.) There is also a further purpose in the scene, of a curious and characteristic kind. In several plays of Euripides, when a heroine hesitates on the verge of a crime, the thing that drives her over the brink is some sudden and violent lowering of her self-respect. Thus Phaedra writes her false letter immediately after her public shame. Creusa in the _Ion_ turns murderous only after crying in the god's ears the story of her seduction. Medea, a princess and, as we have seen, a woman of rather proud chastity, feels, after the offer which she makes to Aegeus in this scene (l. 716 ff., p. 42). that she need shrink from nothing. P. 38, l. 681, The hearth-stone of my sires of yore.]--This sounds as if it meant Aegeus' own house: in reality, by an oracular riddle, it meant the house of Pittheus, by whose daughter, Aethra, Aegeus became the father of Theseus. P. 43, l. 731, An oath wherein to trust.]--Observe that Medea is deceiving Aegeus. She intends to commit a murder before going to him, and therefore wishes to bind him down so firmly that, however much he wish to repudiate her, he shall be unable. Hence this insistence on the oath and the exact form of the oath. (At this time, apparently, she scarcely thinks of the children, only of her revenge.) P. 46, l. 808, No eastern dreamer, &c.]--See on l. 304. P. 47. l. 820, _The_ NURSE _comes out_.]--There is no indication in the original to show who comes out. But it is certainly a woman; as certainly it is not one of the Chorus; and Medea's words suit the Nurse well. It is an almost devilish act to send the Nurse, who would have died rather than take such a message had she understood it. P. 48, ll. 824--846, The sons of Erechtheus, &c.]--This poem is interesting as showing the ideal conception of Athens entertained by a fifth century Athenian. One might compare with it Pericles' famous speech in Thucydides, ii., where the emphasis is laid on Athenian "plain living and high thinking" and the freedom of daily life. Or, again, the speeches of Aethra in Euripides' _Suppliant Women_, where more stress is laid on mercy and championship of the oppressed. The allegory of "Harmony," as a sort of Kore, or Earth-maiden, planted by all the Muses in the soil of Attica, seems to be an invention of the poet. Not any given Art or Muse, but a spirit which unites and harmonises all, is the special spirit of Athens. The Attic connection with Eros, on the other hand, is old and traditional. But Euripides has transformed the primitive nature-god into a mystic and passionate longing for "all manner of high deed," a Love which, different from that described in the preceding chorus, really ennobles human life. This first part of the Chorus is, of course, suggested by Aegeus; the second is more closely connected with the action of the play. "How can Medea dream of asking that stainless land to shelter her crimes? But the whole plan of her revenge is not only wicked but impossible. She simply could not do such a thing, if she tried." Pp. 50 ff., l. 869, The second scene with Jason.]--Dicaearchus, and perhaps his master Aristotle also, seems to have complained of Medea's bursting into tears in this scene, instead of acting her part consistently--a very prejudiced criticism. What strikes one about Medea's assumed role is that in it she remains so like herself and so unlike another woman. Had she really determined to yield to Jason, she would have done so in just this way, keen-sighted and yet passionate. One is reminded of the deceits of half-insane persons, which are due not so much to conscious art as to the emergence of another side of the personality. P. 54, l. 949, Fine robings, &c.]--Repeated from l. 786, p. 46, where it came full in the midst of Medea's avowal of her murderous purpose. It startles one here, almost as though she had spoken out the word "murder" in some way which Jason could not understand. P. 56, l. 976, CHORUS.]--The inaction of the Chorus women during the last scene will not bear thinking about, if we regard them as real human beings, like, for instance, the Bacchae and the Trojan Women in the plays that bear their name. Still there is not only beauty, but, I think, great dramatic value in the conventional and almost mystical quality of this Chorus, and also in the low and quiet tone of that which follows, l. 1081 ff. P. 59, ll. 1021 ff., Why does Medea kill her children?]--She acts not for one clearly stated reason, like a heroine in Sardou, but for many reasons, both conscious and subconscious, as people do in real life. Any analysis professing to be exact would be misleading, but one may note some elements in her feeling: (1) She had played dangerously long with the notion of making Jason childless. (2) When she repented of this (l. 1046, p. 60) the children had already been made the unconscious murderers of the princess. They were certain to be slain, perhaps with tortures, by the royal kindred. (3) Medea might take them with her to Athens and trust to the hope of Aegeus' being able and willing to protect them. But it was a doubtful chance, and she would certainly be in a position of weakness and inferiority if she had the children to protect. (4) In the midst of her passionate half-animal love for the children, there was also an element of hatred, because they were Jason's: cf. l. 112, p. 8. (5) She also seems to feel, in a sort of wild-beast way, that by killing them she makes them more her own: cf. l. 793, p. 46, "Mine, whom no hand shall steal from me away;" l. 1241, p, 68, "touched of none beside." (6) Euripides had apparently observed how common it is, when a woman's mind is deranged by suffering, that her madness takes the form of child-murder. The terrible lines in which Medea speaks to the "Wrath" within her, as if it were a separate being (l. 1056, p. 60), seem to bear out this view. P. 59. l. 1038, Other shapes of life.]--A mystical conception of death. Cf. _Ion_, 1067, where almost exactly the same phrase is used. P. 61, l. 1078, I know to what bad deeds, &c.]--This expression of double consciousness was immensely famous in antiquity. It is quoted by Lucian, Plutarch, Clement, Galen, Synesius, Hierocles, Arrian, Simpicius, besides being imitated, _e.g._ by Ovid: "video meliora proboque, Deteriora sequor." P. 63, l. 1123 ff., MESSENGER.]--A pendant to the Attendant's entrance above, l. 1002. The Attendant, bringing apparently good news, is received with a moan of despair, the Messenger of calamity with serene satisfaction. Cf. the Messenger who announces the death of Pentheus in the _Bacchae_. P. 65, l. 1162, Dead self.]--The reflection in the glass, often regarded as ominous or uncanny in some way. P. 66, l. 1176, The cry turned strangely to its opposite.]--The notion was that an evil spirit could be scared away by loud cheerful shouts--_ololugae_. But while this old woman is making an _ololuge_, she sees that the trouble is graver than she thought, and the cheerful cry turns into a wail. P. 68, l. 1236, Women, my mind is clear.]--With the silence in which Medea passes over the success of her vengeance compare Theseus' words, _Hip._, l. 1260, "I laugh not, neither weep, at this fell doom." P. 69, l. 1249, Thou shalt weep hereafter.]--Cf. _Othello_, v. ii., "Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kiss thee, And love thee after." P. 69, ll. 1251 ff.--This curious prayer to the Sun to "save" Medea--both from the crime of killing her children and the misfortune of being caught by her enemies--is apparently meant to prepare us for the scene of the Dragon Chariot. Notice the emphasis laid on the divine origin of Medea's race and her transformation to "a voice of Hell." P. 71, ll. 1278 ff., Death of the children.]--The door is evidently barred, since Jason has to use crowbars to open it in l. 1317. Cf. the end of Maeterlinck's _Mort de Tintagiles_. P. 71, l. 1281, A mother slew her babes in days of yore, &c.]--Ino, wife of Athamas, King of Thebes, nursed the infant Dionysus. For this Hera punished her with madness. She killed her two children, Learchus and Melicertes, and leaped into the sea. (There are various versions of the story.)--Observe the technique: just as the strain is becoming intolerable, we are turned away from tragedy to pure poetry. See on _Hip._ 731. P. 74, l. 1320, This, that shall save me from mine enemies' rage.]--There is nothing in the words of the play to show what "this" is, but the Scholiast explains it as a chariot drawn by winged serpents, and the stage tradition seems to be clear on the subject. See note to the Aegeus scene (p. 88). This first appearance of Medea "above, on the tower" (Scholiast) seems to me highly effective. The result is to make Medea into something like a _dea ex machina_, who prophesies and pronounces judgment. See Introduction. P. 76, l. 1370, They are dead, they are dead!]--This wrangle, though rather like some scenes in Norse sagas, is strangely discordant for a Greek play. It seems as if Euripides had deliberately departed from his usual soft and reflective style of ending in order to express the peculiar note of discord which is produced by the so-called "satisfaction" of revenge. Medea's curious cry: "Oh, thy voice! It hurts me sore!" shows that the effect is intentional. P. 77, l. 1379, A still green sepulchre.]--There was a yearly festival in the precinct of Hera Acraia, near Corinth, celebrating the deaths of Medea's children. This festival, together with its ritual and "sacred legend," evidently forms the germ of the whole tragedy. Cf. the Trozenian rites over the tomb of Hippolytus, _Hip._ 1424 ff. P. 77, l. 1386, The hands of thine old Argo.]--Jason, left friendless and avoided by his kind, went back to live with his old ship, now rotting on the shore. While he was sleeping under it, a beam of wood fell upon him and broke his head. It is a most grave mistake to treat the line as spurious. _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ HISTORY OF ANCIENT GREEK LITERATURE. ANDROMACHE: A Play. CARLYON SAHIB: A Play. THE EXPLOITATION OF INFERIOR RACES, IN ANCIENT AND MODERN TIMES: An Essay in "Liberalism and the Empire." EURIPIDIS FABULAE: Brevi Adnotatione Critica Instructae, Vols. I. and II. EURIPIDES: Hippolytus; Bacchae; Aristophanes' 'Frogs.' Translated into English verse. EURIPIDES: The Trojan Women. Translated into English verse. EURIPIDES: Electra. Translated into English verse. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE The following changes were made to the original text: Page 40: mav --> may Page 42: eves --> eyes Page 81: P[)e]lias --> Pelias Other than the addition of missing periods, minor variations in spelling and punctuation have been preserved. # Project Gutenberg #8418 HIPPOLYTUS and THE BACCHAE By Euripides Translated by GILBERT MURRAY Nine Greek Dramas By Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides And Aristophanes Translations By E.D.A. Morshead E.H. Plumptre Gilbert Murray And B.B. Rogers INTRODUCTORY NOTE Euripides, the youngest of the trio of great Greek tragedians was born at Salamis in 480 B.C., on the day when the Greeks won their momentous naval victory there over the fleet of the Persians. The precise social status of his parents is not clear but he received a good education, was early distinguished as an athlete, and showed talent in painting and oratory. He was a fellow student of Pericles, and his dramas show the influence of the philosophical ideas of Anaxagoras and of Socrates, with whom he was personally intimate. Like Socrates, he was accused of impiety, and this, along with domestic infelicity, has been supposed to afford a motive for his withdrawal from Athens, first to Magnesia and later to the court of Archelaüs in Macedonia where he died in 406 B.C. The first tragedy of Euripides was produced when he was about twenty-five, and he was several times a victor in the tragic contests. In spite of the antagonisms which he aroused and the criticisms which were hurled upon him in, for example, the comedies of Aristophanes, he attained a very great popularity; and Plutarch tells that those Athenians who were taken captive in the disastrous Sicilian expedition of 413 B.C. were offered freedom by their captors if they could recite from the works of Euripides. Of the hundred and twenty dramas ascribed to Euripides, there have come down to us complete eighteen tragedies and one satyric drama, "Cyclops," beside numerous fragments. The works of Euripides are generally regarded as showing the beginning of the decline of Greek tragedy. The idea of Fate hitherto dominant in the plays of his predecessors, tends to be degraded by him into mere chance; the characters lose much of their ideal quality; and even gods and heroes are represented as moved by the petty motives of ordinary humanity. The chorus is often quite detached from the action; the poetry is florid; and the action is frequently tinged with sensationalism. In spite of all this, Euripides remains a great poet; and his picturesqueness and tendencies to what are now called realism and romanticism, while marking his inferiority to the chaste classicism of Sophocles, bring him more easily within the sympathetic interest of the modern reader. HIPPOLYTUS OF EURIPIDES DRAMATIS PERSONAE THE GODDESS APHRODITE THESEUS, _King of Athens and Trozên_ PHAEDRA, _daughter of Minos, King of Crete, wife to Theseus_ HIPPOLYTUS, _bastard son of Theseus and the Amazon Hippolyte_ THE NURSE OF PHAEDRA A HENCHMAN OF HIPPOLYTUS THE GODDESS ARTEMIS AN OLD HUNTSMAN A CHORUS OF HUNTSMEN ATTENDANTS ON THE THREE ROYAL PERSONS A CHORUS OF TROZENIAN WOMEN, WITH THEIR LEADER _The scene is laid in Trozên. The play was first acted when Epameinon was Archon, Olympiad 87, year 4 (B.C. 429). Euripides was first, Iophon second, Ion third._ APHRODITE Great among men, and not unnamed am I, The Cyprian, in God's inmost halls on high. And wheresoe'er from Pontus to the far Red West men dwell, and see the glad day-star, And worship Me, the pious heart I bless, And wreck that life that lives in stubbornness. For that there is, even in a great God's mind, That hungereth for the praise of human kind. So runs my word; and soon the very deed Shall follow. For this Prince of Theseus' seed, Hippolytus, child of that dead Amazon, And reared by saintly Pittheus in his own Strait ways, hath dared, alone of all Trozên, To hold me least of spirits and most mean, And spurns my spell and seeks no woman's kiss, But great Apollo's sister, Artemis, He holds of all most high, gives love and praise, And through the wild dark woods for ever strays, He and the Maid together, with swift hounds To slay all angry beasts from out these bounds, To more than mortal friendship consecrate! I grudge it not. No grudge know I, nor hate; Yet, seeing he hath offended, I this day Shall smite Hippolytus. Long since my way Was opened, nor needs now much labour more. For once from Pittheus' castle to the shore Of Athens came Hippolytus over-seas Seeking the vision of the Mysteries. And Phaedra there, his father's Queen high-born; Saw him, and as she saw, her heart was torn With great love, by the working of my will. And for his sake, long since, on Pallas' hill, Deep in the rock, that Love no more might roam, She built a shrine, and named it _Love-at-home_: And the rock held it, but its face alway Seeks Trozên o'er the seas. Then came the day When Theseus, for the blood of kinsmen shed, Spake doom of exile on himself, and fled, Phaedra beside him, even to this Trozên. And here that grievous and amazed Queen, Wounded and wondering, with ne'er a word, Wastes slowly; and her secret none hath heard Nor dreamed. But never thus this love shall end! To Theseus' ear some whisper will I send, And all be bare! And that proud Prince, my foe, His sire shall slay with curses. Even so Endeth that boon the great Lord of the Main To Theseus gave, the Three Prayers not in vain. And she, not in dishonour, yet shall die. I would not rate this woman's pain so high As not to pay mine haters in full fee That vengeance that shall make all well with me. But soft, here comes he, striding from the chase, Our Prince Hippolytus!--I will go my ways.-- And hunters at his heels: and a loud throng Glorying Artemis with praise and song! Little he knows that Hell's gates opened are, And this his last look on the great Day-star! [APHRODITE _withdraws, unseen by_ HIPPOLYTUS _and a band of huntsmen, who enter from the left, singing. They pass the Statue of_ APHRODITE _without notice._] HIPPOLYTUS Follow, O follow me, Singing on your ways Her in whose hand are we, Her whose own flock we be, The Zeus-Child, the Heavenly; To Artemis be praise! HUNTSMAN Hail to thee, Maiden blest, Proudest and holiest: God's Daughter, great in bliss, Leto-born, Artemis! Hail to thee, Maiden, far Fairest of all that are, Yea, and most high thine home, Child of the Father's hall; Hear, O most virginal, Hear, O most fair of all, In high God's golden dome. [_The huntsmen have gathered about the altar of_ ARTEMIS. HIPPOLYTUS _now advances from them, and approaches the Statue with a wreath in his hand._] HIPPOLYTUS To thee this wreathed garland, from a green And virgin meadow bear I, O my Queen, Where never shepherd leads his grazing ewes Nor scythe has touched. Only the river dews Gleam, and the spring bee sings, and in the glade Hath Solitude her mystic garden made. No evil hand may cull it: only he Whose heart hath known the heart of Purity, Unlearned of man, and true whate'er befall. Take therefore from pure hands this coronal, O mistress loved, thy golden hair to twine. For, sole of living men, this grace is mine, To dwell with thee, and speak, and hear replies Of voice divine, though none may see thine eyes. Oh, keep me to the end in this same road! [_An_ OLD HUNTSMAN, _who has stood apart from the rest, here comes up to_ HIPPOLYTUS.] HUNTSMAN My Prince--for "Master" name I none but God-- Gave I good counsel, wouldst thou welcome it? HIPPOLYTUS Right gladly, friend; else were I poor of wit. HUNTSMAN Knowest thou one law, that through the world has won? HIPPOLYTUS What wouldst thou? And how runs thy law? Say on. HUNTSMAN It hates that Pride that speaks not all men fair! HIPPOLYTUS And rightly. Pride breeds hatred everywhere. HUNTSMAN And good words love, and grace in all men's sight? HIPPOLYTUS Aye, and much gain withal, for trouble slight. HUNTSMAN How deem'st thou of the Gods? Are they the same? HIPPOLYTUS Surely: we are but fashioned on their frame. HUNTSMAN Why then wilt thou be proud, and worship not ... HIPPOLYTUS Whom? If the name be speakable, speak out! HUNTSMAN She stands here at thy gate: the Cyprian Queen! HIPPOLYTUS I greet her from afar: my life is clean. HUNTSMAN Clean? Nay, proud, proud; a mark for all to scan! HIPPOLYTUS Each mind hath its own bent, for God or man. HUNTSMAN God grant thee happiness ... and wiser thought! HIPPOLYTUS These Spirits that reign in darkness like me not. HUNTSMAN What the Gods ask, O Son, that man must pay! HIPPOLYTUS (_turning from him to the others_). On, huntsmen, to the Castle! Make your way Straight to the feast room; 'tis a merry thing After the chase, a board of banqueting. And see the steeds be groomed, and in array The chariot dight. I drive them forth to-day [_He pauses, and makes a slight gesture of reverence to the Statue on the left. Then to the_ OLD HUNTSMAN.] That for thy Cyprian, friend, and nought beside! [HIPPOLYTUS _follows the huntsmen, who stream by the central door in the Castle. The_ OLD HUNTSMAN _remains_.] HUNTSMAN (_approaching the Statue and kneeling_) O Cyprian--for a young man in his pride I will not follow!--here before thee, meek, In that one language that a slave may speak, I pray thee; Oh, if some wild heart in froth Of youth surges against thee, be not wroth For ever! Nay, be far and hear not then: Gods should be gentler and more wise than men! [_He rises and follows the others into the Castle_.] _The Orchestra is empty for a moment, then there enter from right and left several Trosenian women young and old. Their number eventually amounts to fifteen._ CHORUS There riseth a rock-born river, Of Ocean's tribe, men say; The crags of it gleam and quiver, And pitchers dip in the spray: A woman was there with raiment white To bathe and spread in the warm sunlight, And she told a tale to me there by the river The tale of the Queen and her evil day: How, ailing beyond allayment, Within she hath bowed her head, And with shadow of silken raiment The bright brown hair bespread. For three long days she hath lain forlorn, Her lips untainted of flesh or corn, For that secret sorrow beyond allayment That steers to the far sad shore of the dead. _Some Women_ Is this some Spirit, O child of man? Doth Hecat hold thee perchance, or Pan? Doth she of the Mountains work her ban, Or the dread Corybantes bind thee? _Others_ Nay, is it sin that upon thee lies, Sin of forgotten sacrifice, In thine own Dictynna's sea-wild eyes? Who in Limna here can find thee; For the Deep's dry floor is her easy way, And she moves in the salt wet whirl of the spray. _Other Women_ Or doth the Lord of Erechtheus' race, Thy Theseus, watch for a fairer face, For secret arms in a silent place, Far from thy love or chiding? _Others_ Or hath there landed, amid the loud Hum of Piraeus' sailor-crowd, Some Cretan venturer, weary-browed, Who bears to the Queen some tiding; Some far home-grief, that hath bowed her low, And chained her soul to a bed of woe? _An Older Woman_ Nay--know yet not?--this burden hath alway lain On the devious being of woman; yea, burdens twain, The burden of Wild Will and the burden of Pain. Through my heart once that wind of terror sped; But I, in fear confessèd, Cried from the dark to Her in heavenly bliss, The Helper of Pain, the Bow-Maid Artemis: Whose feet I praise for ever, where they tread Far off among the blessèd! THE LEADER But see, the Queen's grey nurse at the door, Sad-eyed and sterner, methinks, than of yore With the Queen. Doth she lead her hither To the wind and sun?--Ah, fain would I know What strange betiding hath blanched that brow And made that young life wither. [_The NURSE comes out from the central door followed by_ PHAEDRA, _who is supported by two handmaids. They make ready a couch for_ PHAEDRA _to lie upon_.] NURSE O sick and sore are the days of men! What wouldst thou? What shall I change again Here is the Sun for thee; here is the sky; And thy weary pillows wind-swept lie, By the castle door. But the cloud of thy brow is dark, I ween; And soon thou wilt back to thy bower within: So swift to change is the path of thy feet, And near things hateful, and far things sweet; So was it before! Oh, pain were better than tending pain! For that were single, and this is twain, With grief of heart and labour of limb. Yet all man's life is but ailing and dim, And rest upon earth comes never. But if any far-off state there be, Dearer than life to mortality; The hand of the Dark hath hold thereof, And mist is under and mist above. And so we are sick of life, and cling On earth to this nameless and shining thing. For other life is a fountain sealed, And the deeps below are unrevealed, And we drift on legends for ever! [PHAEDRA _during this has been laid on her couch; she speaks to the handmaids_.] PHAEDRA Yes; lift me: not my head so low. There, hold my arms.--Fair arms they seem!-- My poor limbs scarce obey me now! Take off that hood that weighs my brow, And let my long hair stream. NURSE Nay, toss not, Child, so feveredly. The sickness best will win relief By quiet rest and constancy. All men have grief. PHAEDRA (_not noticing her_) Oh for a deep and dewy spring, With runlets cold to draw and drink! And a great meadow blossoming, Long-grassed, and poplars in a ring, To rest me by the brink! NURSE Nay, Child! Shall strangers hear this tone So wild, and thoughts so fever-flown? PHAEDRA Oh, take me to the Mountain! Oh, Pass the great pines and through the wood, Up where the lean hounds softly go, A-whine for wild things' blood, And madly flies the dappled roe. O God, to shout and speed them there, An arrow by my chestnut hair Drawn tight, and one keen glimmering spear-- Ah! if I could! NURSE What wouldst thou with them--fancies all!-- Thy hunting and thy fountain brink? What wouldst thou? By the city wall Canst hear our own brook plash and fall Downhill, if thou wouldst drink. PHAEDRA O Mistress of the Sea-lorn Mere Where horse-hoofs beat the sand and sing, O Artemis, that I were there To tame Enetian steeds and steer Swift chariots in the ring! NURSE Nay, mountainward but now thy hands Yearned out, with craving for the chase; And now toward the unseaswept sands Thou roamest, where the coursers pace! O wild young steed, what prophet knows The power that holds thy curb, and throws Thy swift heart from its race? [_At these words PHAEDRA gradually recovers herself and pays attention._] PHAEDRA What have I said? Woe's me! And where Gone straying from my wholesome mind? What? Did I fall in some god's snare? --Nurse, veil my head again, and blind Mine eyes.--There is a tear behind That lash.--Oh, I am sick with shame! Aye, but it hath a sting, To come to reason; yet the name Of madness is an awful thing.-- Could I but die in one swift flame Unthinking, unknowing! NURSE I veil thy face, Child.--Would that so Mine own were veiled for evermore, So sore I love thee! ... Though the lore Of long life mocks me, and I know How love should be a lightsome thing Not rooted in the deep o' the heart; With gentle ties, to twine apart If need so call, or closer cling.-- Why do I love thee so? O fool, O fool, the heart that bleeds for twain, And builds, men tell us, walls of pain, To walk by love's unswerving rule The same for ever, stern and true! For "Thorough" is no word of peace: 'Tis "Naught-too-much" makes trouble cease. And many a wise man bows thereto. [_The_ LEADER OF THE CHORUS _here approaches the_ NURSE.] LEADER Nurse of our Queen, thou watcher old and true, We see her great affliction, but no clue Have we to learn the sickness. Wouldst thou tell The name and sort thereof, 'twould like us well. NURSE Small leechcraft have I, and she tells no man. LEADER Thou know'st no cause? Nor when the unrest began? NURSE It all comes to the same. She will not speak. LEADER (_turning and looking at_ PHAEDRA). How she is changed and wasted! And how weak! NURSE 'Tis the third day she hath fasted utterly. LEADER What, is she mad? Or doth she seek to die? NURSE I know not. But to death it sure must lead. LEADER 'Tis strange that Theseus takes hereof no heed. NURSE She hides her wound, and vows it is not so. LEADER Can he not look into her face and know? NURSE Nay, he is on a journey these last days. LEADER Canst thou not force her, then? Or think of ways To trap the secret of the sick heart's pain? NURSE Have I not tried all ways, and all in vain? Yet will I cease not now, and thou shalt tell If in her grief I serve my mistress well! [_She goes across to where_ PHAEDRA _lies; and presently, while speaking, kneels by her_.] Dear daughter mine, all that before was said Let both of us forget; and thou instead Be kindlier, and unlock that prisoned brow. And I, who followed then the wrong road, now Will leave it and be wiser. If thou fear Some secret sickness, there be women here To give thee comfort. [PHAEDRA _shakes her head_. No; not secret? Then Is it a sickness meet for aid of men? Speak, that a leech may tend thee. Silent still? Nay, Child, what profits silence? If 'tis ill This that I counsel, makes me see the wrong: If well, then yield to me. Nay, Child, I long For one kind word, one look! [PHAEDRA _lies motionless. The_ NURSE _rises._] Oh, woe is me! Women, we labour here all fruitlessly, All as far off as ever from her heart! She ever scorned me, and now hears no part Of all my prayers! [_Turning to_ PHAEDRA _again._] Nay, hear thou shalt, and be, If so thou will, more wild than the wild sea; But know, thou art thy little ones' betrayer! If thou die now, shall child of thine be heir To Theseus' castle? Nay, not thine, I ween, But hers! That barbèd Amazonian Queen Hath left a child to bend thy children low, A bastard royal-hearted--sayst not so?-- Hippolytus... PHAEDRA Ah! [_She starts up, sitting, and throws the veil off_.] NURSE That stings thee? PHAEDRA Nurse, most sore Thou hast hurt me! In God's name, speak that name no more. NURSE Thou seest? Thy mind is clear; but with thy mind Thou wilt not save thy children, nor be kind To thine own life. PHAEDRA My children? Nay, most dear I love them,--Far, far other grief is here. NURSE (_after a pause, wondering_) Thy hand is clean, O Child, from stain of blood? PHAEDRA My hand is clean; but is my heart, O God? NURSE Some enemy's spell hath made thy spirit dim? PHAEDRA He hates me not that slays me, nor I him. NURSE Theseus, the King, hath wronged thee in man's wise? PHAEDRA Ah, could but I stand guiltless in his eyes! NURSE O speak! What is this death-fraught mystery? PHAEDRA Nay, leave me to my wrong. I wrong not thee. NURSE (_suddenly throwing herself in supplication at PHAEDRA'S feet_) Not wrong me, whom thou wouldst all desolate leave? PHAEDRA (_rising and trying to move away_) What wouldst thou? Force me? Clinging to my sleeve? NURSE Yea, to thy knees; and weep; and let not go! PHAEDRA Woe to thee, Woman, if thou learn it, woe! NURSE I know no bitterer woe than losing thee. PHAEDRA Yet the deed shall honour me. NURSE Why hide what honours thee? 'Tis all I claim! PHAEDRA Why, so I build up honour out of shame! NURSE Then speak, and higher still thy fame shall stand. PHAEDRA Go, in God's name!--Nay, leave me; loose my hand! NURSE Never, until thou grant me what I pray. PHAEDRA (_yielding, after a pause_) So be it. I dare not tear that hand away. NURSE (_rising and releasing PHAEDRA_) Tell all thou wilt, Daughter. I speak no more. PHAEDRA (_after a long pause_) Mother, poor Mother, that didst love so sore! NURSE What mean'st thou, Child? The Wild Bull of the Tide? PHAEDRA And thou, sad sister, Dionysus' bride! NURSE Child! wouldst thou shame the house where thou wast born? PHAEDRA And I the third, sinking most all-forlorn! NURSE (_to herself_) I am all lost and feared. What will she say? PHAEDRA From there my grief comes, not from yesterday. NURSE I come no nearer to thy parable. PHAEDRA Oh, would that thou could'st tell what I must tell! NURSE I am no seer in things I wot not of. PHAEDRA (_again hesitating_) What is it that they mean, who say men...love? NURSE A thing most sweet, my Child, yet dolorous. PHAEDRA Only the half, belike, hath fallen on us! NURSE (_starting_) On thee? Love?--Oh, what say'st thou? What man's son? PHAEDRA What man's? There was a Queen, an Amazon ... NURSE Hippolytus, say'st thou? PHAEDRA (_again wrapping her face in the veil_) Nay, 'twas thou, not I! [PHAEDRA _sinks back on the couch and covers her face again. The_ NURSE _starts violently from her and walks up and down._] NURSE O God! what wilt thou say, Child? Wouldst thou try To kill me?--Oh, 'tis more than I can bear; Women. I will no more of it, this glare Of hated day, this shining of the sky. I will fling down my body, and let it lie Till life be gone! Women, God rest with you, My works are over! For the pure and true Are forced to evil, against their own heart's vow, And love it! [_She suddenly sees the Statue of_ CYPRIS, _and stands with her eyes riveted upon it._] Ah, Cyprian! No god art thou, But more than god, and greater, that hath thrust Me and my queen and all our house to dust! [_She throws herself on the ground close to the statue._] CHORUS _Some Women_ O Women, have ye heard? Nay, dare ye hear The desolate cry of the young Queen's misery? _A Woman_ My Queen, I love thee dear, Yet liefer were I dead than framed like thee. _Others_ Woe, woe to me for this thy bitter bane, Surely the food man feeds upon is pain! _Others_ How wilt thou bear thee through this livelong day, Lost, and thine evil naked to the light? Strange things are close upon us--who shall say How strange?--save one thing that is plain to sight, The stroke of the Cyprian and the fall thereof On thee, thou child of the Isle of fearful Love! [PHAEDRA _during this has risen from the couch and comes forward collectedly. As she speaks the_ NURSE _gradually rouses herself, and listens more calmly._] PHAEDRA O Women, dwellers in this portal-seat Of Pelops' land, gazing towards my Crete, How oft, in other days than these, have I Through night's long hours thought of man's misery, And how this life is wrecked! And, to mine eyes, Not in man's knowledge, not in wisdom, lies The lack that makes for sorrow. Nay, we scan And know the right--for wit hath many a man-- But will not to the last end strive and serve. For some grow too soon weary, and some swerve To other paths, setting before the Right The diverse far-off image of Delight: And many are delights beneath the sun! Long hours of converse; and to sit alone Musing--a deadly happiness!--and Shame: Though two things there be hidden in one name, And Shame can be slow poison if it will; This is the truth I saw then, and see still; Nor is there any magic that can stain That white truth for me, or make me blind again. Come, I will show thee how my spirit hath moved. When the first stab came, and I knew I loved, I cast about how best to face mine ill. And the first thought that came, was to be still And hide my sickness.--For no trust there is In man's tongue, that so well admonishes And counsels and betrays, and waxes fat With griefs of its own gathering!--After that I would my madness bravely bear, and try To conquer by mine own heart's purity. My third mind, when these two availed me naught To quell love was to die-- [_Motion of protest among the Women._] --the best, best thought-- --Gainsay me not--of all that man can say! I would not have mine honour hidden away; Why should I have my shame before men's eyes Kept living? And I knew, in deadly wise, Shame was the deed and shame the suffering; And I a woman, too, to face the thing, Despised of all! Oh, utterly accurst Be she of women, whoso dared the first To cast her honour out to a strange man! 'Twas in some great house, surely, that began This plague upon us; then the baser kind, When the good led towards evil, followed blind And joyous! Cursed be they whose lips are clean And wise and seemly, but their hearts within Rank with bad daring! How can they, O Thou That walkest on the waves, great Cyprian, how Smile in their husbands' faces, and not fall, Not cower before the Darkness that knows all, Aye, dread the dead still chambers, lest one day The stones find voice, and all be finished! Nay, Friends, 'tis for this I die; lest I stand there Having shamed my husband and the babes I bare. In ancient Athens they shall some day dwell, My babes, free men, free-spoken, honourable, EURIPIDES And when one asks their mother, proud of me! For, oh, it cows a man, though bold he be, To know a mother's or a father's sin. 'Tis written, one way is there, one, to win This life's race, could man keep it from his birth, A true clean spirit. And through all this earth To every false man, that hour comes apace When Time holds up a mirror to his face, And girl-like, marvelling, there he stares to see How foul his heart! Be it not so with me! LEADER OF CHORUS Ah, God, how sweet is virtue, and how wise, And honour its due meed in all men's eyes! NURSE (_who has now risen and recovered herself_) Mistress, a sharp swift terror struck me low A moment since, hearing of this thy woe. But now--I was a coward! And men say Our second thought the wiser is alway. This is no monstrous thing; no grief too dire To meet with quiet thinking. In her ire A most strong goddess hath swept down on thee. Thou lovest. Is that so strange? Many there be Beside thee! ... And because thou lovest, wilt fall And die! And must all lovers die, then? All That are or shall be? A blithe law for them! Nay, when in might she swoops, no strength can stem Cypris; and if man yields him, she is sweet; But is he proud and stubborn? From his feet She lifts him, and--how think you?--flings to scorn! She ranges with the stars of eve and morn, She wanders in the heaving of the sea, And all life lives from her.--Aye, this is she That sows Love's seed and brings Love's fruit to birth; And great Love's brethren are all we on earth! Nay, they who con grey books of ancient days Or dwell among the Muses, tell--and praise-- How Zeus himself once yearned for Semelê; How maiden Eôs in her radiancy Swept Kephalos to heaven away, away, For sore love's sake. And there they dwell, men say, And fear not, fret not; for a thing too stern Hath met and crushed them! And must thou, then, turn And struggle? Sprang there from thy father's blood Thy little soul all lonely? Or the god That rules thee, is he other than our gods? Nay, yield thee to men's ways, and kiss their rods! How many, deem'st thou, of men good and wise Know their own home's blot, and avert their eyes? How many fathers, when a son has strayed And toiled beneath the Cyprian, bring him aid, Not chiding? And man's wisdom e'er hath been To keep what is not good to see, unseen! A straight and perfect life is not for man; Nay, in a shut house, let him, if he can, 'Mid sheltered rooms, make all lines true. But here, Out in the wide sea fallen, and full of fear, Hopest thou so easily to swim to land? Canst thou but set thine ill days on one hand And more good days on the other, verily, O child of woman, life is well with thee! [_She pauses, and then draws nearer to_ PHAEDRA.] Nay, dear my daughter, cease thine evil mind, Cease thy fierce pride! For pride it is, and blind, To seek to outpass gods!--Love on and dare: A god hath willed it! And, since pain is there, Make the pain sleep! Songs are there to bring calm, And magic words. And I shall find the balm, Be sure, to heal thee. Else in sore dismay Were men, could not we women find our way! LEADER OF THE CHORUS Help is there, Queen, in all this woman says, To ease thy suffering. But 'tis thee I praise; Albeit that praise is harder to thine ear Than all her chiding was, and bitterer! PHAEDRA Oh, this it is hath flung to dogs and birds Men's lives and homes and cities-fair false word! Oh, why speak things to please our ears? We crave Not that. Tis honour, honour, we must save! NURSE Why prate so proud! 'Tis no words, brave nor base Thou cravest; 'tis a man's arms! [PHAEDRA _moves indignantly_.] Up and face The truth of what thou art, and name it straight! Were not thy life thrown open here for Fate To beat on; hadst thou been a woman pure Or wise or strong; never had I for lure Of joy nor heartache led thee on to this! But when a whole life one great battle is, To win or lose--no man can blame me then. PHAEDRA Shame on thee! Lock those lips, and ne'er again Let word nor thought so foul have harbour there! NURSE Foul, if thou wilt: but better than the fair For thee and me. And better, too, the deed Behind them, if it save thee in thy need, Than that word Honour thou wilt die to win! PHAEDRA Nay, in God's name,--such wisdom and such sin Are all about thy lips!--urge me no more. For all the soul within me is wrought o'er By Love; and if thou speak and speak, I may Be spent, and drift where now I shrink away. NURSE Well, if thou wilt!--'Twere best never to err, But, having erred, to take a counsellor Is second.--Mark me now. I have within love-philtres, to make peace where storm hath been, That, with no shame, no scathe of mind, shall save Thy life from anguish; wilt but thou be brave! [_To herself, rejecting_.] Ah, but from him, the well-beloved, some sign We need, or word, or raiment's hem, to twine Amid the charm, and one spell knit from twain. PHAEDRA Is it a potion or a salve? Be plain. NURSE Who knows? Seek to be helped, Child, not to know. PHAEDRA Why art thou ever subtle? I dread thee, so. NURSE Thou wouldst dread everything!--What dost thou dread? PHAEDRA Least to his ear some word be whispered. NURSE Let be, Child! I will make all well with thee! --Only do thou, O Cyprian of the Sea, Be with me! And mine own heart, come what may, Shall know what ear to seek, what word to say! [_The_ NURSE, _having spoken these last words in prayer apart to the Statue of_ CYPRIS, _turns back and goes into the house_. PHAEDRA _sits pensive again on her couch till towards the end of the following Song, when she rises and bends close to the door_.] CHORUS Erôs, Erôs, who blindest, tear by tear, Men's eyes with hunger; thou swift Foe that pliest Deep in our hearts joy like an edgèd spear; Come not to me with Evil haunting near, Wrath on the wind, nor jarring of the clear Wing's music as thou fliest! There is no shaft that burneth, not in fire, Not in wild stars, far off and flinging fear, As in thine hands the shaft of All Desire, Erôs, Child of the Highest! In vain, in vain, by old Alpheüs' shore The blood of many bulls doth stain the river And all Greece bows on Phoebus' Pythian floor; Yet bring we to the Master of Man no store The Keybearer, who standeth at the door Close-barred, where hideth ever The heart of the shrine. Yea, though he sack man's life Like a sacked city, and moveth evermore Girt with calamity and strange ways of strife, Him have we worshipped never! * * * * * There roamed a Steed in Oechalia's wild, A Maid without yoke, without Master, And Love she knew not, that far King's child; But he came, he came, with a song in the night. With fire, with blood; and she strove in flight, A Torrent Spirit, a Maenad white, Faster and vainly faster, Sealed unto Heracles by the Cyprian's Might. Alas, thou Bride of Disaster! O Mouth of Dirce, O god-built wall, That Dirce's wells run under, Ye know the Cyprian's fleet footfall! Ye saw the heavens around her flare, When she lulled to her sleep that Mother fair Of twy-born Bacchus, and decked her there The Bride of the bladed Thunder. For her breath is on all that hath life, and she floats in the air, Bee-like, death-like, a wonder. [_During the last lines_ PHAEDRA _has approached the door and is listening_.] PHAEDRA Silence ye Women! Something is amiss. LEADER How? In the house?--Phaedra, what fear is this? PHAEDRA Let me but listen! There are voices. Hark! LEADER I hold my peace: yet is thy presage dark. PHAEDRA Oh, misery! O God, that such a thing should fall on me! LEADER What sound, what word, O Women, Friend, makes that sharp terror start Out at thy lips? What ominous cry half-heard Hath leapt upon thine heart? PHAEDRA I am undone!--Bend to the door and hark, Hark what a tone sounds there, and sinks away! LEADER Thou art beside the bars. 'Tis thine to mark The castle's floating message. Say, Oh, say What thing hath come to thee? PHAEDRA (_calmly_) Why, what thing should it be? The son of that proud Amazon speaks again In bitter wrath: speaks to my handmaiden! LEADER I hear a noise of voices, nothing clear. For thee the din hath words, as through barred locks Floating, at thy heart it knocks. PHAEDRA "Pander of Sin" it says.--Now canst thou hear?-- And there: "Betrayer of a master's bed." LEADER Ah me, betrayed! Betrayed! Sweet Princess, thou art ill bested, Thy secret brought to light, and ruin near, By her thou heldest dear, By her that should have loved thee and obeyed! PHAEDRA Aye, I am slain. She thought to help my fall With love instead of honour, and wrecked all. LEADER Where wilt thou turn thee, where? And what help seek, O wounded to despair? PHAEDRA I know not, save one thing to die right soon. For such as me God keeps no other boon. [_The door in the centre bursts open, and_ HIPPOLYTUS _comes forth, closely followed by the_ NURSE. PHAEDRA _cowers aside_.] HIPPOLYTUS O Mother Earth, O Sun that makest clean, What poison have I heard, what speechless sin! NURSE Hush O my Prince, lest others mark, and guess ... HIPPOLYTUS I have heard horrors! Shall I hold my peace? NURSE Yea by this fair right arm, Son, by thy pledge ... HIPPOLYTUS Down with that hand! Touch not my garment's edge! NURSE Oh, by thy knees, be silent or I die! HIPPOLYTUS Why, when thy speech was all so guiltless? Why? NURSE It is not meet, fair Son, for every ear! HIPPOLYTUS Good words can bravely forth, and have no fear. NURSE Thine oath, thine oath! I took thine oath before! HIPPOLYTUS 'Twas but my tongue, 'twas not my soul that swore. NURSE O Son, what wilt thou? Wilt thou slay thy kin? HIPPOLYTUS I own no kindred with the spawn of sin! [_He flings her from him_.] NURSE Nay, spare me! Man was born to err; oh, spare! HIPPOLYTUS O God, why hast Thou made this gleaming snare, Woman, to dog us on the happy earth? Was it Thy will to make Man, why his birth Through Love and Woman? Could we not have rolled Our store of prayer and offering, royal gold Silver and weight of bronze before Thy feet, And bought of God new child souls, as were meet For each man's sacrifice, and dwelt in homes Free, where nor Love nor Woman goes and comes How, is that daughter not a bane confessed, Whom her own sire sends forth--(He knows her best!)-- And, will some man but take her, pays a dower! And he, poor fool, takes home the poison-flower; Laughs to hang jewels on the deadly thing He joys in; labours for her robe-wearing, Till wealth and peace are dead. He smarts the less In whose high seat is set a Nothingness, A woman naught availing. Worst of all The wise deep-thoughted! Never in my hall May she sit throned who thinks and waits and sighs! For Cypris breeds most evil in the wise, And least in her whose heart has naught within; For puny wit can work but puny sin. Why do we let their handmaids pass the gate? Wild beasts were best, voiceless and fanged, to wait About their rooms, that they might speak with none, Nor ever hear one answering human tone! But now dark women in still chambers lay Plans that creep out into light of day On handmaids' lips--[_Turning to the_ NURSE.] As thine accursèd head Braved the high honour of my Father's bed. And came to traffic ... Our white torrent's spray Shall drench mine ears to wash those words away! And couldst thou dream that _I_ ...? I feel impure Still at the very hearing! Know for sure, Woman, naught but mine honour saves ye both. Hadst thou not trapped me with that guileful oath, No power had held me secret till the King Knew all! But now, while he is journeying, I too will go my ways and make no sound. And when he comes again, I shall be found Beside him, silent, watching with what grace Thou and thy mistress shall greet him face to face! Then shall I have the taste of it, and know What woman's guile is.--Woe upon you, woe! How can I too much hate you, while the ill Ye work upon the world grows deadlier still? Too much? Make woman pure, and wild Love tame, Or let me cry for ever on their shame! [_He goes off in fury to the left_. PHAEDRA _still cowering in her place begins to sob_.] PHAEDRA Sad, sad and evil-starred is Woman's state. What shelter now is left or guard? What spell to loose the iron knot of fate? And this thing, O my God, O thou sweet Sunlight, is but my desert! I cannot fly before the avenging rod Falls, cannot hide my hurt. What help, O ye who love me, can come near, What god or man appear, To aid a thing so evil and so lost? Lost, for this anguish presses, soon or late, To that swift river that no life hath crossed. No woman ever lived so desolate! LEADER OF THE CHORUS Ah me, the time for deeds is gone; the boast Proved vain that spake thine handmaid; and all lost! [_At these words_ PHAEDRA _suddenly remembers the_ NURSE, _who is cowering silently where_ HIPPOLYTUS _had thrown her from him. She turns upon her_.] PHAEDRA O wicked, wicked, wicked! Murderess heart To them that loved thee! Hast thou played thy part? Am I enough trod down? May Zeus, my sire, Blast and uproot thee! Stab thee dead with fire! Said I not--Knew I not thine heart?--to name To no one soul this that is now my shame? And thou couldst not be silent! So no more I die in honour. But enough; a store Of new words must be spoke and new things thought. This man's whole being to one blade is wrought Of rage against me. Even now he speeds To abase me to the King with thy misdeeds; Tell Pittheus; fill the land with talk of sin! Cursèd be thou, and whoso else leaps in To bring bad aid to friends that want it not. [_The_ NURSE _has raised herself, and faces_ PHAEDRA, _downcast but calm_.] NURSE Mistress, thou blamest me; and all thy lot So bitter sore is, and the sting so wild, I bear with all. Yet, if I would, my Child, I have mine answer, couldst thou hearken aught. I nursed thee, and I love thee; and I sought Only some balm to heal thy deep despair, And found--not what I sought for. Else I were Wise, and thy friend, and good, had all sped right. So fares it with us all in the world's sight. PHAEDRA First stab me to the heart, then humour me With words! 'Tis fair; 'tis all as it should be! NURSE We talk too long, Child. I did ill; but, oh, There is a way to save thee, even so! PHAEDRA A way? No more ways! One way hast thou trod Already, foul and false and loathed of god! Begone out of my sight; and ponder how Thine own life stands! I need no helpers now. [_She turns from the_ NURSE, _who creeps abashed away into the Castle_.] Only do ye, high Daughters of Trozên, Let all ye hear be as it had not been; Know naught, and speak of naught! 'Tis my last prayer. LEADER By God's pure daughter, Artemis, I swear, No word will I of these thy griefs reveal! PHAEDRA 'Tis well. But now, yea, even while I reel And falter, one poor hope, as hope now is, I clutch at in this coil of miseries; To save some honour for my children's sake; Yea, for myself some fragment, though things break In ruin around me. Nay, I will not shame The old proud Cretan castle whence I came, I will not cower before King Theseus' eyes, Abased, for want of one life's sacrifice! LEADER What wilt thou? Some dire deed beyond recall? PHAEDRA (_musing_) Die; but how die? LEADER Let not such wild words fall! PHAEDRA (_turning upon her_) Give thou not such light counsel! Let me be To sate the Cyprian that is murdering me! To-day shall be her day; and, all strife past Her bitter Love shall quell me at the last. Yet, dying, shall I die another's bane! He shall not stand so proud where I have lain Bent in the dust! Oh, he shall stoop to share The life I live in, and learn mercy there! [_She goes off wildly into the Castle_.] CHORUS Could I take me to some cavern for mine hiding, In the hill-tops where the Sun scarce hath trod; Or a cloud make the home of mine abiding, As a bird among the bird-droves of God! Could I wing me to my rest amid the roar Of the deep Adriatic on the shore, Where the waters of Eridanus are clear, And Phaëthon's sad sisters by his grave Weep into the river, and each tear Gleams, a drop of amber, in the wave. To the strand of the Daughters of the Sunset, The Apple-tree, the singing and the gold; Where the mariner must stay him from his onset, And the red wave is tranquil as of old; Yea, beyond that Pillar of the End That Atlas guardeth, would I wend; Where a voice of living waters never ceaseth In God's quiet garden by the sea, And Earth, the ancient life-giver, increaseth Joy among the meadows, like a tree. * * * * * O shallop of Crete, whose milk-white wing Through the swell and the storm-beating, Bore us thy Prince's daughter, Was it well she came from a joyous home To a far King's bridal across the foam? What joy hath her bridal brought her? Sure some spell upon either hand Flew with thee from the Cretan strand, Seeking Athena's tower divine; And there, where Munychus fronts the brine, Crept by the shore-flung cables' line, The curse from the Cretan water! And for that dark spell that about her clings, Sick desires of forbidden things The soul of her rend and sever; The bitter tide of calamity Hath risen above her lips; and she, Where bends she her last endeavour? She will hie her alone to her bridal room, And a rope swing slow in the rafters' gloom; And a fair white neck shall creep to the noose, A-shudder with dread, yet firm to choose The one strait way for fame, and lose The Love and the pain for ever. [_The Voice of the_ NURSE _is heard from within, crying, at first inarticulately, then clearly_.] VOICE Help ho! The Queen! Help, whoso hearkeneth! Help! Theseus' spouse caught in a noose of death! A WOMAN God, is it so soon finished? That bright head Swinging beneath the rafters! Phaedra dead! VOICE O haste! This knot about her throat is made So fast! Will no one bring me a swift blade? A WOMAN Say, friends, what think ye? Should we haste within, And from her own hand's knotting loose the Queen? ANOTHER Nay, are there not men there? 'Tis an ill road In life, to finger at another's load. VOICE Let it lie straight! Alas! the cold white thing That guards his empty castle for the King! A WOMAN Ah! "Let it lie straight!" Heard ye what she said? No need for helpers now; the Queen is dead! [_The Women, intent upon the voices from the Castle, have not noticed the approach of_ THESEUS. _He enters from the left; his dress and the garland on his head show that he has returned from some oracle or special abode of a God. He stands for a moment perplexed_.] THESEUS Ho, Women, and what means this loud acclaim Within the house? The vassals' outcry came To smite mine ears far off. It were more meet To fling out wide the Castle gates, and greet With a joy held from God's Presence! [_The confusion and horror of the Women's faces gradually affects him. A dirge-cry comes from the Castle_.] How? Not Pittheus? Hath Time struck that hoary brow? Old is he, old, I know. But sore it were, Returning thus, to find his empty chair! [_The Women hesitate; then the Leader comes forward_.] LEADER O Theseus, not on any old man's head This stroke falls. Young and tender is the dead. THESEUS Ye Gods! One of my children torn from me? LEADER Thy motherless children live, most grievously. THESEUS How sayst thou? What? My wife? ... Say how she died. LEADER In a high death-knot that her own hands tied. THESEUS A fit of the old cold anguish? Tell me all-- That held her? Or did some fresh thing befall? LEADER We know no more. But now arrived we be, Theseus, to mourn for thy calamity. [THESEUS _stays for a moment silent, and puts his hand on his brow. He notices the wreath_.] THESEUS What? And all garlanded I come to her With flowers, most evil-starred God's-messenger! Ho, varlets, loose the portal bars; undo The bolts; and let me see the bitter view Of her whose death hath brought me to mine own. [_The great central door of the Castle is thrown open wide, and the body of_ PHAEDRA _is seen lying on a bier, surrounded by a group of Handmaids, wailing_.] THE HANDMAIDS Ah me, what thou hast suffered and hast done: A deed to wrap this roof in flame! Why was thine hand so strong, thine heart so bold? Wherefore. O dead in anger, dead in shame, The long, long wrestling ere thy breath was cold? O ill-starred Wife, What brought this blackness over all thy life? [_A throng of Men and Women has gradually collected_.] THESEUS Ah me, this is the last --Hear, O my countrymen!--and bitterest Of Theseus' labours! Fortune all unblest, How hath thine heavy heel across me passed! Is it the stain of sins done long ago, Some fell God still remembereth, That must so dim and fret my life with death? I cannot win to shore; and the waves flow Above mine eyes, to be surmounted not. Ah wife, sweet wife, what name Can fit thine heavy lot? Gone like a wild bird, like a blowing flame, In one swift gust, where all things are forgot! Alas! this misery! Sure 'tis some stroke of God's great anger rolled From age to age on me, For some dire sin wrought by dim kings of old. LEADER Sire, this great grief hath come to many an one, A true wife lost. Thou art not all alone. THESEUS Deep, deep beneath the Earth, Dark may my dwelling be, And night my heart's one comrade, in the dearth, O Love, of thy most sweet society. This is my death, O Phaedra, more than thine. [_He turns suddenly on the Attendants_.] Speak who speak can! What was it? What malign Swift stroke, O heart discounselled, leapt on thee? [_He bends over_ PHAEDRA; _then, as no one speaks looks fiercely up_.] What, will ye speak? Or are they dumb as death, This herd of thralls, my high house harboureth? [_There is no answer. He bends again over_ PHAEDRA.] SOME WOMEN Woe, woe! God brings to birth A new grief here, close on the other's tread! My life hath lost its worth. May all go now with what is finishèd! The castle of my King is overthrown, A house no more, a house vanished and gone! OTHER WOMEN O God, if it may be in any way, Let not this house be wrecked! Help us who pray! I know not what is here: some unseen thing That shows the Bird of Evil on the wing. [THESEUS _has read the tablet and breaks out in uncontrollable emotion_.] THESEUS Oh, horror piled on horror!--Here is writ... Nay, who could bear it, who could speak of it? LEADER What, O my King? If I may hear it, speak! THESEUS Doth not the tablet cry aloud, yea, shriek, Things not to be forgotten?--Oh, to fly And hide mine head! No more a man am I. God what ghastly music echoes here! LEADER How wild thy voice! Some terrible thing is near. THESEUS No; my lips' gates will hold it back no more; This deadly word, That struggles on the brink and will not o'er, Yet will not stay unheard. [_He raises his hand, to make proclamation to all present_.] Ho, hearken all this land! [_The people gather expectantly about him_.] Hippolytus by violence hath laid hand On this my wife, forgetting God's great eye. [_Murmurs of amazement and horror; THESEUS, apparently calm, raises both arms to heaven._] Therefore, O Thou my Father, hear my cry, Poseidon! Thou didst grant me for mine own Three prayers; for one of these, slay now my son, Hippolytus; let him not outlive this day, If true thy promise was! Lo, thus I pray. LEADER Oh, call that wild prayer back! O King, take heed! I know that thou wilt live to rue this deed. THESEUS It may not be.--And more, I cast him out From all my realms. He shall be held about By two great dooms. Or by Poseidon's breath He shall fall swiftly to the house of Death; Or wandering, outcast, o'er strange land and sea, Shall live and drain the cup of misery. LEADER Ah; see! here comes he at the point of need. Shake off that evil mood, O King; have heed For all thine house and folk--Great Theseus, hear! [THESEUS _stands silent in fierce gloom._ HIPPOLYTUS _comes in from the right._] HIPPOLYTUS Father, I heard thy cry, and sped in fear To help thee, but I see not yet the cause That racked thee so. Say, Father, what it was. [_The murmurs in the crowd, the silent gloom of his Father, and the horror of the Chorus-women gradually work on_ HIPPOLYTUS _and bewilder him. He catches sight of the bier._] Ah, what is that! Nay, Father, not the Queen Dead! [_Murmurs in the crowd._] 'Tis most strange. 'Tis passing strange, I ween. 'Twas here I left her. Scarce an hour hath run Since here she stood and looked on this same sun. What is it with her? Wherefore did she die? [THESEUS _remains silent. The murmurs increase._] Father, to thee I speak. Oh, tell me, why, Why art thou silent? What doth silence know Of skill to stem the bitter flood of woe? And human hearts in sorrow crave the more, For knowledge, though the knowledge grieve them sore. It is not love, to veil thy sorrows in From one most near to thee, and more than kin. THESEUS (_to himself_) Fond race of men, so striving and so blind, Ten thousand arts and wisdoms can ye find, Desiring all and all imagining: But ne'er have reached nor understood one thing, To make a true heart there where no heart is! HIPPOLYTUS That were indeed beyond man's mysteries, To make a false heart true against his will. But why this subtle talk? It likes me ill, Father; thy speech runs wild beneath this blow. THESEUS (_as before_) O would that God had given us here below Some test of love, some sifting of the soul, To tell the false and true! Or through the whole Of men two voices ran, one true and right, The other as chance willed it; that we might Convict the liar by the true man's tone, And not live duped forever, every one! HIPPOLYTUS (_misunderstanding him; then guessing at something of the truth_) What? Hath some friend proved false? Or in thine ear Whispered some slander? Stand I tainted here, Though utterly innocent? [_Murmurs from the crowd_.] Yea, dazed am I; 'Tis thy words daze me, falling all awry, Away from reason, by fell fancies vexed! THESEUS O heart of man, what height wilt venture next? What end comes to thy daring and thy crime? For if with each man's life 'twill higher climb, And every age break out in blood and lies Beyond its fathers, must not God devise Some new world far from ours, to hold therein Such brood of all unfaithfulness and sin? Look, all, upon this man, my son, his life Sprung forth from mine! He hath defiled my wife; And standeth here convicted by the dead, A most black villain! [HIPPOLYTUS _falls back with a cry and covers his face with his robe_.] Nay, hide not thine head! Pollution, is it? Thee it will not stain. Look up, and face thy Father's eyes again! Thou friend of Gods, of all mankind elect; Thou the pure heart, by thoughts of ill unflecked! I care not for thy boasts. I am not mad, To deem that Gods love best the base and bad. Now is thy day! Now vaunt thee; thou so pure, No flesh of life may pass thy lips! Now lure Fools after thee; call Orpheus King and Lord; Make ecstasies and wonders! Thumb thine hoard Of ancient scrolls and ghostly mysteries-- Now thou art caught and known! Shun men like these, I charge ye all! With solemn words they chase their prey, and in their hearts plot foul disgrace. My wife is dead.--"Ha, so that saves thee now," That is what grips thee worst, thou caitiff, thou! What oaths, what subtle words, shall stronger be Than this dead hand, to clear the guilt from thee? "She hated thee," thou sayest; "the bastard born Is ever sore and bitter as a thorn To the true brood."--A sorry bargainer In the ills and goods of life thou makest her, If all her best-beloved she cast away To wreck blind hate on thee!--What, wilt thou say "Through every woman's nature one blind strand Of passion winds, that men scarce understand?"-- Are we so different? Know I not the fire And perilous flood of a young man's desire, Desperate as any woman, and as blind, When Cypris stings? Save that the man behind Has all men's strength to aid him. Nay, 'twas thou... But what avail to wrangle with thee now, When the dead speaks for all to understand, A perfect witness! Hie thee from this land To exile with all speed. Come never more To god-built Athens, not to the utmost shore Of any realm where Theseus' arm is strong! What? Shall I bow my head beneath this wrong, And cower to thee? Not Isthmian Sinis so Will bear men witness that I laid him low, Nor Skiron's rocks, that share the salt sea's prey, Grant that my hand hath weight vile things to slay! LEADER Alas! whom shall I call of mortal men Happy? The highest are cast down again. HIPPOLYTUS Father, the hot strained fury of thy heart Is terrible. Yet, albeit so swift thou art Of speech, if all this matter were laid bare, Speech were not then so swift; nay, nor so fair... [_Murmurs again in the crowd_.] I have no skill before a crowd to tell My thoughts. 'Twere best with few, that know me well.-- Nay that is natural; tongues that sound but rude In wise men's ears, speak to the multitude With music. None the less, since there is come This stroke upon me, I must not be dumb, But speak perforce... And there will I begin Where thou beganst, as though to strip my sin Naked, and I not speak a word! Dost see This sunlight and this earth? I swear to thee There dwelleth not in these one man--deny All that thou wilt!--more pure of sin than I. Two things I know on earth: God's worship first; Next to win friends about me, few, that thirst To hold them clean of all unrighteousness. Our rule doth curse the tempters, and no less Who yieldeth to the tempters.--How, thou say'st, "Dupes that I jest at?" Nay; I make a jest Of no man. I am honest to the end, Near or far off, with him I call my friend. And most in that one thing, where now thy mesh Would grip me, stainless quite! No woman's flesh Hath e'er this body touched. Of all such deed Naught wot I, save what things a man may read In pictures or hear spoke; nor am I fain, Being virgin-souled, to read or hear again. My life of innocence moves thee not; so be it. Show then what hath seduced me; let me see it. Was that poor flesh so passing fair, beyond All woman's loveliness? Was I some fond False plotter, that I schemed to win through her Thy castle's heirdom? Fond indeed I were! Nay, a stark madman! "But a crown," thou sayest, "Usurped, is sweet." Nay, rather most unblest To all wise-hearted; sweet to fools and them Whose eyes are blinded by the diadem. In contests of all valour fain would I Lead Hellas; but in rank and majesty Not lead, but be at ease, with good men near To love me, free to work and not to fear. That brings more joy than any crown or throne. [_He sees from the demeanor of_ THESEUS _and of the crowd that his words are not winning them, but rather making them bitterer than before. It comes to his lips to speak the whole truth_.] I have said my say; save one thing...one alone O had I here some witness in my need, As I was witness! Could she hear me plead, Face me and face the sunlight; well I know, Our deeds would search us out for thee, and show Who lies! But now, I swear--so hear me both, The Earth beneath and Zeus who Guards the Oath-- I never touched this woman that was thine! No words could win me to it, nor incline My heart to dream it. May God strike me down, Nameless and fameless, without home or town, An outcast and a wanderer of the world; May my dead bones rest never, but be hurled From sea to land, from land to angry sea, If evil is my heart and false to thee! [_He waits a moment; but sees that his Father is unmoved. The truth again comes to his lips_.] If 'twas some fear that made her cast away Her life ... I know not. More I must not say. Right hath she done when in her was no right; And Right I follow to mine own despite! LEADER It is enough! God's name is witness large, And thy great oath, to assoil thee of this charge, THESEUS Is not the man a juggler and a mage, Cool wits and one right oath--what more?--to assuage Sin and the wrath of injured fatherhood! HIPPOLYTUS Am I so cool? Nay, Father, 'tis thy mood That makes me marvel! By my faith, wert thou The son, and I the sire; and deemed I now In very truth thou hadst my wife assailed, I had not exiled thee, nor stood and railed, But lifted once mine arm, and struck thee dead! THESEUS Thou gentle judge! Thou shalt not so be sped To simple death, nor by thine own decree. Swift death is bliss to men in misery. Far off, friendless forever, thou shalt drain Amid strange cities the last dregs of pain! HIPPOLYTUS Wilt verily cast me now beyond thy pale, Not wait for Time, the lifter of the veil? THESEUS Aye, if I could, past Pontus, and the red Atlantic marge! So do I hate thine head. HIPPOLYTUS Wilt weigh nor oath nor faith nor prophet's word To prove me? Drive me from thy sight unheard? THESEUS This tablet here, that needs no prophet's lot To speak from, tells me all. I ponder not Thy fowls that fly above us! Let them fly. HIPPOLYTUS O ye great Gods, wherefore unlock not I My lips, ere yet ye have slain me utterly, Ye whom I love most? No. It may not be! The one heart that I need I ne'er should gain To trust me. I should break mine oath in vain. THESEUS Death! but he chokes me with his saintly tone!-- Up, get thee from this land! Begone! Begone! HIPPOLYTUS Where shall I turn me? Think. To what friend's door Betake me, banished on a charge so sore? THESEUS Whoso delights to welcome to his hall Vile ravishers ... to guard his hearth withal! HIPPOLYTUS Thou seekst my heart, my tears? Aye, let it be Thus! I am vile to all men, and to thee! THESEUS There was a time for tears and thought; the time Ere thou didst up and gird thee to thy crime. HIPPOLYTUS Ye stones, will ye not speak? Ye castle walls! Bear witness if I be so vile, so false! THESEUS Aye, fly to voiceless witnesses! Yet here A dumb deed speaks against thee, and speaks clear! HIPPOLYTUS Alas! Would I could stand and watch this thing, and see My face, and weep for very pity of me! THESEUS Full of thyself, as ever! Not a thought For them that gave thee birth; nay, they are naught! HIPPOLYTUS O my wronged Mother! O my birth of shame! May none I love e'er bear a bastard's name! THESEUS (_in a sudden blaze of rage_) Up, thralls, and drag him from my presence! What, 'Tis but a foreign felon! Heard ye not? [_The thralls still hesitate in spite of his fury._] HIPPOLYTUS They touch me at their peril! Thine own hand Lift, if thou canst, to drive me from the land. THESEUS That will I straight, unless my will be done! [HIPPOLYTUS _comes close to him and kneels._] Nay! Not for thee my pity! Get thee gone! [HIPPOLYTUS _rises, makes a sign of submission, and slowly moves away._ THESEUS, _as soon as he sees him going, turns rapidly and enters the Castle. The door is closed again._ HIPPOLYTUS _has stopped for a moment before the Statue of _ARTEMIS, _and, as _THESEUS_ departs, breaks out in prayer._] HIPPOLYTUS So; it is done! O dark and miserable! I see it all, but see not how to tell The tale.--O thou belovèd, Leto's Maid, Chase-comrade, fellow-rester in the glade, Lo, I am driven with a caitiff's brand Forth from great Athens! Fare ye well, O land And city of old Erechtheus! Thou, Trozên, What riches of glad youth mine eyes have seen In thy broad plain! Farewell! This is the end; The last word, the last look! Come, every friend And fellow of my youth that still may stay, Give me god-speed and cheer me on my way. Ne'er shall ye see a man more pure of spot Than me, though mine own Father loves me not! [HIPPOLYTUS _goes away to the right, followed by many Huntsmen and other young men. The rest of the crowd has by this time dispersed, except the Women of the Chorus and some Men of the Chorus of Huntsmen_.] CHORUS _Men_ Surely the thought of the Gods hath balm in it alway, to win me Far from my griefs; and a thought, deep in the dark of my mind, Clings to a great Understanding. Yet all the spirit within me Faints, when I watch men's deeds matched with the guerdon they find. For Good comes in Evil's traces, And the Evil the Good replaces; And Life, 'mid the changing faces, Wandereth weak and blind. _Women_ What wilt thou grant me, O God? Lo, this is the prayer of my travail-- Some well-being; and chance not very bitter thereby; Spirit uncrippled by pain; and a mind not deep to unravel Truth unseen, nor yet dark with the brand of a lie. With a veering mood to borrow Its light from every morrow, Fair friends and no deep sorrow, Well could man live and die! _Men_ Yet my spirit is no more clean, And the weft of my hope is torn, For the deed of wrong that mine eyes have seen, The lie and the rage and the scorn; A Star among men, yea, a Star That in Hellas was bright, By a Father's wrath driven far To the wilds and the night. Oh, alas for the sands of the shore! Alas for the brakes of the hill, Where the wolves shall fear thee no more, And thy cry to Dictynna is still! _Women_ No more in the yoke of thy car Shall the colts of Enetia fleet; Nor Limna's echoes quiver afar To the clatter of galloping feet. The sleepless music of old, That leaped in the lyre, Ceaseth now, and is cold, In the halls of thy sire. The bowers are discrowned and unladen Where Artemis lay on the lea; And the love-dream of many a maiden Lost, in the losing of thee. _A Maiden_ And I, even I, For thy fall, O Friend, Amid tears and tears, Endure to the end Of the empty years, Of a life run dry. In vain didst thou bear him, Thou Mother forlorn! Ye Gods that did snare him, Lo, I cast in your faces My hate and my scorn! Ye love-linkèd Graces, (Alas for the day!) Was he naught, then, to you, That ye cast him away, The stainless and true, From the old happy places? LEADER Look yonder! 'Tis the Prince's man, I ween Speeding toward this gate, most dark of mien. [A HENCHMAN _enters in haste_.] HENCHMAN Ye women, whither shall I go to seek King Theseus? Is he in this dwelling? Speak! LEADER Lo, where he cometh through the Castle gate! [THESEUS _comes out from the Castle_.] HENCHMAN O King, I bear thee tidings of dire weight To thee, aye, and to every man, I ween, From Athens to the marches of Trozên. THESEUS What? Some new stroke hath touched, unknown to me, The sister cities of my sovranty? HENCHMAN Hippolytus is...Nay, not dead; but stark Outstretched, a hairsbreadth this side of the dark. THESEUS (_as though unmoved_) How slain? Was there some other man, whose wife He had like mine denied, that sought his life? HENCHMAN His own wild team destroyed him, and the dire Curse of thy lips. The boon of thy great Sire Is granted thee, O King, and thy son slain. THESEUS Ye Gods! And thou, Poseidon! Not in vain I called thee Father; thou hast heard my prayer! How did he die? Speak on. How closed the snare Of Heaven to slay the shamer of my blood? HENCHMAN 'Twas by the bank of beating sea we stood, We thralls, and decked the steeds, and combed each mane; Weeping; for word had come that ne'er again The foot of our Hippolytus should roam This land, but waste in exile by thy doom. So stood we till he came, and in his tone No music now save sorrow's, like our own, And in his train a concourse without end Of many a chase-fellow and many a friend. At last he brushed his sobs away, and spake: "Why this fond loitering? I would not break My Father's law--Ho, there! My coursers four And chariot, quick! This land is mine no more." Thereat, be sure, each man of us made speed. Swifter than speech we brought them up, each steed Well dight and shining, at our Prince's side. He grasped the reins upon the rail: one stride And there he stood, a perfect charioteer, Each foot in its own station set. Then clear His voice rose, and his arms to heaven were spread: "O Zeus, if I be false, strike thou me dead! But, dead or living, let my Father see One day, how falsely he hath hated me!" Even as he spake, he lifted up the goad And smote; and the steeds sprang. And down the road We henchmen followed, hard beside the rein, Each hand, to speed him, toward the Argive plain And Epidaurus. So we made our way Up toward the desert region, where the bay Curls to a promontory near the verge Of our Trozên, facing the southward surge Of Saron's gulf. Just there an angry sound, Slow-swelling, like God's thunder underground Broke on us, and we trembled. And the steeds Pricked their ears skyward, and threw back their heads. And wonder came on all men, and affright, Whence rose that awful voice. And swift our sight Turned seaward, down the salt and roaring sand. And there, above the horizon, seemed to stand A wave unearthly, crested in the sky; Till Skiron's Cape first vanished from mine eye, Then sank the Isthmus hidden, then the rock Of Epidaurus. Then it broke, one shock And roar of gasping sea and spray flung far, And shoreward swept, where stood the Prince's car. Three lines of wave together raced, and, full In the white crest of them, a wild Sea-Bull Flung to the shore, a fell and marvellous Thing. The whole land held his voice, and answering Roared in each echo. And all we, gazing there, Gazed seeing not; 'twas more than eyes could bear. Then straight upon the team wild terror fell. Howbeit, the Prince, cool-eyed and knowing well Each changing mood a horse has, gripped the reins Hard in both hands; then as an oarsman strains Up from his bench, so strained he on the thong, Back in the chariot swinging. But the young Wild steeds bit hard the curb, and fled afar; Nor rein nor guiding hand nor morticed car Stayed them at all. For when he veered them round, And aimed their flying feet to grassy ground, In front uprose that Thing, and turned again The four great coursers, terror-mad. But when Their blind rage drove them toward the rocky places, Silent and ever nearer to the traces, It followed rockward, till one wheel-edge grazed. The chariot tript and flew, and all was mazed In turmoil. Up went wheel-box with a din, Where the rock jagged, and nave and axle-pin. And there--the long reins round him--there was he Dragging, entangled irretrievably. A dear head battering at the chariot side, Sharp rocks, and rippled flesh, and a voice that cried: "Stay, stay, O ye who fattened at my stalls, Dash me not into nothing!--O thou false Curse of my Father!--Help! Help, whoso can, An innocent, innocent and stainless man!" Many there were that laboured then, I wot, To bear him succour, but could reach him not, Till--who knows how?--at last the tangled rein Unclasped him, and he fell, some little vein Of life still pulsing in him. All beside, The steeds, the hornèd Horror of the Tide, Had vanished--who knows where?--in that wild land. O King, I am a bondsman of thine hand; Yet love nor fear nor duty me shall win To say thine innocent son hath died in sin. All women born may hang themselves, for me, And swing their dying words from every tree On Ida! For I know that he was true! LEADER O God, so cometh new disaster, new Despair! And no escape from what must be! THESEUS Hate of the man thus stricken lifted me At first to joy at hearing of thy tale; But now, some shame before the Gods, some pale Pity for mine own blood, hath o'er me come. I laugh not, neither weep, at this fell doom. HENCHMAN How then? Behoves it bear him here, or how Best do thy pleasure?--Speak, Lord. Yet if thou Wilt mark at all my word, thou wilt not be Fierce-hearted to thy child in misery. THESEUS Aye, bring him hither. Let me see the face Of him who durst deny my deep disgrace And his own sin; yea, speak with him, and prove His clear guilt by God's judgments from above. [_The_ HENCHMAN _departs to fetch_ HIPPOLYTUS; THESEUS _sits waiting in stern gloom, while the_ CHORUS _sing. At the close of their song a Divine Figure is seen approaching on a cloud in the air and the voice of_ ARTEMIS _speaks_.] CHORUS Thou comest to bend the pride Of the hearts of God and man, Cypris; and by thy side, In earth-encircling span, He of the changing plumes, The Wing that the world illumes, As over the leagues of land flies he, Over the salt and sounding sea. For mad is the heart of Love, And gold the gleam of his wing; And all to the spell thereof Bend, when he makes his spring; All life that is wild and young In mountain and wave and stream, All that of earth is sprung, Or breathes in the red sunbeam; Yea, and Mankind. O'er all a royal throne, Cyprian, Cyprian, is thine alone! A VOICE FROM THE CLOUD O thou that rulest in Aegeus' Hall, I charge thee, hearken! Yea, it is I, Artemis, Virgin of God most High. Thou bitter King, art thou glad withal For thy murdered son? For thine ear bent low to a lying Queen, For thine heart so swift amid things unseen? Lo, all may see what end thou hast won! Go, sink thine head in the waste abyss; Or aloft to another world than this, Birdwise with wings, Fly far to thine hiding, Far over this blood that clots and clings; For in righteous men and in holy things No rest is thine nor abiding! [_The cloud has become stationary in the air._] Hear, Theseus, all the story of thy grief! Verily, I bring but anguish, not relief; Yet, 'twas for this I came, to show how high And clean was thy son's heart, that he may die Honoured of men; aye, and to tell no less The frenzy, or in some sort the nobleness, Of thy dead wife. One Spirit there is, whom we That know the joy of white virginity, Most hate in heaven. She sent her fire to run In Phaedra's veins, so that she loved thy son. Yet strove she long with love, and in the stress Fell not, till by her Nurse's craftiness Betrayed, who stole, with oaths of secrecy, To entreat thy son. And he, most righteously, Nor did her will, nor, when thy railing scorn Beat on him, broke the oath that he had sworn, For God's sake. And thy Phaedra, panic-eyed, Wrote a false writ, and slew thy son, and died, Lying; but thou wast nimble to believe! [THESEUS, _at first bewildered, then dumfounded, now utters a deep groan._] It stings thee, Theseus?--Nay, hear on and grieve Yet sorer. Wottest thou three prayers were thine Of sure fulfilment, from thy Sire divine? Hast thou no foes about thee, then, that one-- Thou vile King!--must be turned against thy son? The deed was thine. Thy Sea-born Sire but heard The call of prayer, and bowed him to his word. But thou in his eyes and in mine art found Evil, who wouldst not think, nor probe, nor sound The deeps of prophet's lore, nor day by day Leave Time to search; but swifter than man may, Let loose the curse to slay thine innocent son! THESEUS O Goddess, let me die! ARTEMIS Nay; thou hast done A heavy wrong; yet even beyond this ill Abides for thee forgiveness. 'Twas the will Of Cypris that these evil things should be, Sating her wrath. And this immutably Hath Zeus ordained in heaven: no God may thwart A God's fixed will; we grieve but stand apart. Else, but for fear of the Great Father's blame, Never had I to such extreme of shame Bowed me, be sure, as here to stand and see Slain him I loved best of mortality! Thy fault, O King, its ignorance sunders wide From very wickedness; and she who died By death the more disarmed thee, making dumb The voice of question. And the storm has come Most bitterly of all on thee! Yet I Have mine own sorrow, too. When good men die, There is no joy in heaven, albeit our ire On child and house of the evil falls like fire. [_A throng is seen approaching;_ HIPPOLYTUS _enters, supported by his attendants._] CHORUS Lo, it is he! The bright young head Yet upright there! Ah the torn flesh and the blood-stained hair; Alas for the kindred's trouble! It falls as fire from a God's hand sped, Two deaths, and mourning double. HIPPOLYTUS Ah, pain, pain, pain! O unrighteous curse! O unrighteous sire! No hope.--My head is stabbed with fire, And a leaping spasm about my brain. Stay, let me rest. I can no more. O fell, fell steeds that my own hand fed, Have ye maimed me and slain, that loved me of yore? --Soft there, ye thralls! No trembling hands As ye lift me, now!--Who is that that stands At the right?--Now firm, and with measured tread, Lift one accursèd and stricken sore By a father's sinning. Thou, Zeus, dost see me? Yea, it is I; The proud and pure, the server of God, The white and shining in sanctity! To a visible death, to an open sod, I walk my ways; And all the labour of saintly days Lost, lost, without meaning! Ah God, it crawls This agony, over me! Let be, ye thralls! Come, Death, and cover me: Come, O thou Healer blest! But a little more, And my soul is clear, And the anguish o'er! Oh, a spear, a spear! To rend my soul to its rest! Oh, strange, false Curse! Was there some blood-stained head, Some father of my line, unpunishèd, Whose guilt lived in his kin, And passed, and slept, till after this long day It lights... Oh, why on me? Me, far away And innocent of sin? O words that cannot save! When will this breathing end in that last deep Pain that is painlessness? 'Tis sleep I crave. When wilt thou bring me sleep, Thou dark and midnight magic of the grave! ARTEMIS Sore-stricken man, bethink thee in this stress, Thou dost but die for thine own nobleness. HIPPOLYTUS Ah! O breath of heavenly fragrance! Though my pain Burns, I can feel thee and find rest again. The Goddess Artemis is with me here. ARTEMIS With thee and loving thee, poor sufferer! HIPPOLYTUS Dost see me, Mistress, nearing my last sleep? ARTEMIS Aye, and would weep for thee, if Gods could weep. HIPPOLYTUS Who now shall hunt with thee or hold thy quiver? ARTEMIS He dies but my love cleaves to him for ever. HIPPOLYTUS Who guide thy chariot, keep thy shrine-flowers fresh? ARTEMIS The accursed Cyprian caught him in her mesh! HIPPOLYTUS The Cyprian? Now I see it!--Aye, 'twas she. ARTEMIS She missed her worship, loathed thy chastity! HIPPOLYTUS Three lives by her one hand! 'Tis all clear now. ARTEMIS Yea, three; thy father and his Queen and thou. HIPPOLYTUS My father; yea, he too is pitiable! ARTEMIS A plotting Goddess tripped him, and he fell. HIPPOLYTUS Father, where art thou? ... Oh, thou sufferest sore! THESEUS Even unto death, child. There is joy no more. HIPPOLYTUS I pity thee in this coil; aye, more than me. THESEUS Would I could lie there dead instead of thee! HIPPOLYTUS Oh, bitter bounty of Poseidon's love! THESEUS Would God my lips had never breathed thereof! HIPPOLYTUS (_gently_) Nay, thine own rage had slain me then, some wise! THESEUS A lying spirit had made blind mine eyes! HIPPOLYTUS Ah me! Would that a mortal's curse could reach to God! ARTEMIS Let be! For not, though deep beneath the sod Thou liest, not unrequited nor unsung Shall this fell stroke, from Cypris' rancour sprung, Quell thee, mine own, the saintly and the true! My hand shall win its vengeance through and through, Piercing with flawless shaft what heart soe'er Of all men living is most dear to Her. Yea, and to thee, for this sore travail's sake, Honours most high in Trozên will I make; For yokeless maids before their bridal night Shall shear for thee their tresses; and a rite Of honouring tears be thine in ceaseless store; And virgin's thoughts in music evermore Turn toward thee, and praise thee in the Song Of Phaedra's far-famed love and thy great wrong. O seed of ancient Aegeus, bend thee now And clasp thy son. Aye, hold and fear not thou! Not knowingly hast thou slain him; and man's way, When Gods send error, needs must fall astray. And thou, Hippolytus, shrink not from the King, Thy father. Thou wast born to bear this thing. Farewell! I may not watch man's fleeting breath, Nor strain mine eyes with the effluence of death. And sure that Terror now is very near. [_The cloud slowly rises and floats away_.] HIPPOLYTUS Farewell, farewell, most Blessèd! Lift thee clear Of soiling men! Thou wilt not grieve in heaven For my long love! ...Father, thou art forgiven. It was Her will. I am not wroth with thee... I have obeyed Her all my days! ... Ah me, The dark is drawing down upon mine eyes; It hath me! ... Father! ... Hold me! Help me rise! THESEUS (_supporting him in his arms_) Ah, woe! How dost thou torture me, my son! HIPPOLYTUS I see the Great Gates opening. I am gone. THESEUS Gone? And my hand red-reeking from this thing! HIPPOLYTUS Nay, nay; thou art assoiled of manslaying. THESEUS Thou leav'st me clear of murder? Sayst thou so? HIPPOLYTUS Yea, by the Virgin of the Stainless Bow! THESEUS Dear Son! Ah, now I see thy nobleness! HIPPOLYTUS Pray that a true-born child may fill my place. THESEUS Ah me, thy righteous and god-fearing heart! HIPPOLYTUS Farewell; A long farewell, dear Father, ere we part! [THESEUS _bends down and embraces him passionately_.] THESEUS Not yet!--O hope and bear while thou hast breath! HIPPOLYTUS Lo, I have borne my burden. This is death... Quick, Father; lay the mantle on my face. [THESEUS _covers his face with a mantle and rises._] THESEUS Ye bounds of Pallas and of Pelops' race, What greatness have ye lost! Woe, woe is me! Thou Cyprian, long shall I remember thee! CHORUS On all this folk, both low and high, A grief hath fallen beyond men's fears. There cometh a throbbing of many tears, A sound as of waters falling. For when great men die, A mighty name and a bitter cry Rise up from a nation calling. [_They move into the Castle, carrying the body of_ HIPPOLYTUS.] THE BACCHAE OF EURIPIDES DRAMATIS PERSONAE DIONYSUS, THE GOD; _son of Zeus and of the Theban princess Semelê_. CADMUS, _formerly King of Thebes, father of Semelê_. PENTHEUS, _King of Thebes, grandson of Cadmus_. AGAVE, _daughter of Cadmus, mother of Pentheus_. TEIRESIAS, _an aged Theban prophet_. A SOLDIER OF PENTHEUS' GUARD. TWO MESSENGERS. A CHORUS OF INSPIRED DAMSELS, _following Dionysus from the East_. _"The play was first produced after the death of Euripides by his son who bore the same name, together with the Iphigenia in Aulis and the Alcmaeon, probably in the year 405 B.C."_ _The background represents the front of the Castle of_ PENTHEUS, _King of Thebes. At one side is visible the sacred Tomb of Semelê, a little enclosure overgrown with wild vines, with a cleft in the rocky floor of it from which there issues at times steam or smoke. The God_ DIONYSUS _is discovered alone._ DIONYSUS Behold, God's Son is come unto this land Of heaven's hot splendour lit to life, when she Of Thebes, even I, Dionysus, whom the brand Who bore me, Cadmus' daughter Semelê, Died here. So, changed in shape from God to man, I walk again by Dirce's streams and scan Ismenus' shore. There by the castle side I see her place, the Tomb of the Lightning's Bride, The wreck of smouldering chambers, and the great Faint wreaths of fire undying--as the hate Dies not, that Hera held for Semelê. Aye, Cadmus hath done well; in purity He keeps this place apart, inviolate, His daughter's sanctuary; and I have set My green and clustered vines to robe it round Far now behind me lies the golden ground Of Lydian and of Phrygian; far away The wide hot plains where Persian sunbeams play, The Bactrian war-holds, and the storm-oppressed Clime of the Mede, and Araby the Blest, And Asia all, that by the salt sea lies In proud embattled cities, motley-wise Of Hellene and Barbarian interwrought; And now I come to Hellas--having taught All the world else my dances and my rite Of mysteries, to show me in men's sight Manifest God. And first of Helene lands I cry this Thebes to waken; set her hands To clasp my wand, mine ivied javelin, And round her shoulders hang my wild fawn-skin. For they have scorned me whom it least beseemed, Semelê's sisters; mocked by birth, nor deemed That Dionysus sprang from Dian seed. My mother sinned, said they; and in her need, With Cadmus plotting, cloaked her human shame With the dread name of Zeus; for that the flame From heaven consumed her, seeing she lied to God. Thus must they vaunt; and therefore hath my rod On them first fallen, and stung them forth wild-eyed From empty chambers; the bare mountain side Is made their home, and all their hearts are flame. Yea, I have bound upon the necks of them The harness of my rites. And with them all The seed of womankind from hut and hall Of Thebes, hath this my magic goaded out. And there, with the old King's daughters, in a rout Confused, they make their dwelling-place between The roofless rocks and shadowy pine trees green. Thus shall this Thebes, how sore soe'er it smart, Learn and forget not, till she crave her part In mine adoring; thus must I speak clear To save my mother's fame, and crown me here, As true God, born by Semelê to Zeus. Now Cadmus yieldeth up his throne and use Of royal honour to his daughter's son Pentheus; who on my body hath begun A war with God. He thrusteth me away From due drink-offering, and, when men pray, My name entreats not. Therefore on his own Head and his people's shall my power be shown. Then to another land, when all things here Are well, must I fare onward, making clear My godhead's might. But should this Theban town Essay with wrath and battle to drag down My maids, lo, in their path myself shall be, And maniac armies battled after me! For this I veil my godhead with the wan Form of the things that die, and walk as Man. O Brood of Tmolus o'er the wide world flown, O Lydian band, my chosen and mine own, Damsels uplifted o'er the orient deep To wander where I wander, and to sleep Where I sleep; up, and wake the old sweet sound, The clang that I and mystic Rhea found, The Timbrel of the Mountain! Gather all Thebes to your song round Pentheus' royal hall. I seek my new-made worshippers, to guide Their dances up Kithaeron's pine clad side. [_As he departs, there comes stealing in from the left a band of fifteen Eastern Women, the light of the sunrise streaming upon their long white robes and ivy-bound hair. They wear fawn-skins over the robes, and carry some of them timbrels, some pipes and other instruments. Many bear the thyrsus, or sacred Wand, made of reed ringed with ivy. They enter stealthily till they see that the place is empty, and then begin their mystic song of worship._] CHORUS _A Maiden_ From Asia, from the dayspring that uprises To Bromios ever glorying we came. We laboured for our Lord in many guises; We toiled, but the toil is as the prize is; Thou Mystery, we hail thee by thy name! _Another_ Who lingers in the road? Who espies us? We shall hide him in his house nor be bold. Let the heart keep silence that defies us; For I sing this day to Dionysus The song that is appointed from of old. _All the Maidens_ Oh, blessèd he in all wise, Who hath drunk the Living Fountain, Whose life no folly staineth, And his soul is near to God; Whose sins are lifted, pall-wise, As he worships on the Mountain, And where Cybele ordaineth, Our Mother, he has trod: His head with ivy laden And his thyrsus tossing high, For our God he lifts his cry; "Up, O Bacchae, wife and maiden, Come, O ye Bacchae, come; Oh, bring the Joy-bestower, God-seed of God the Sower, Bring Bromios in his power From Phrygia's mountain dome; To street and town and tower, Oh, bring ye Bromios home." Whom erst in anguish lying For an unborn life's desire, As a dead thing in the Thunder His mother cast to earth; For her heart was dying, dying, In the white heart of the fire; Till Zeus, the Lord of Wonder, Devised new lairs of birth; Yea, his own flesh tore to hide him, And with clasps of bitter gold Did a secret son enfold, And the Queen knew not beside him; Till the perfect hour was there; Then a hornèd God was found, And a God of serpents crowned; And for that are serpents wound In the wands his maidens bear, And the songs of serpents sound In the mazes of their hair. _Some Maidens_ All hail, O Thebes, thou nurse of Semelê! With Semelê's wild ivy crown thy towers; Oh, burst in bloom of wreathing bryony, Berries and leaves and flowers; Uplift the dark divine wand, The oak-wand and the pine-wand, And don thy fawn-skin, fringed in purity With fleecy white, like ours. Oh, cleanse thee in the wands' waving pride! Yea, all men shall dance with us and pray, When Bromios his companies shall guide Hillward, ever hillward, where they stay, The flock of the Believing, The maids from loom and weaving By the magic of his breath borne away. _Others_ Hail thou, O Nurse of Zeus, O Caverned Haunt Where fierce arms clanged to guard God's cradle rare, For thee of old crested Corybant First woke in Cretan air The wild orb of our orgies, The Timbrel; and thy gorges Rang with this strain; and blended Phrygian chant And sweet keen pipes were there. But the Timbrel, the Timbrel was another's, And away to Mother Rhea it must wend; And to our holy singing from the Mother's The mad Satyrs carried it, to blend In the dancing and the cheer Of our third and perfect Year; And it serves Dionysus in the end! _A Maiden_ O glad, glad on the mountains To swoon in the race outworn, When the holy fawn-skin clings, And all else sweeps away, To the joy of the red quick fountains, The blood of the hill-goat torn, The glory of wild-beast ravenings, Where the hill-tops catch the day; To the Phrygian, Lydian, mountains! 'Tis Bromios leads the way. _Another Maiden_ Then streams the earth with milk, yea, streams With wine and nectar of the bee, And through the air dim perfume steams Of Syrian frankincense; and He, Our leader, from his thyrsus spray A torchlight tosses high and higher, A torchlight like a beacon-fire, To waken all that faint and stray; And sets them leaping as he sings, His tresses rippling to the sky, And deep beneath the Maenad cry His proud voice rings: "Come, O ye Bacchae, come!" _All the Maidens_ Hither, O fragrant of Tmolus the Golden, Come with the voice of timbrel and drum; Let the cry of your joyance uplift and embolden The God of the joy-cry; O Bacchanals, come! With pealing of pipes and with Phrygian clamour, On, where the vision of holiness thrills, And the music climbs and the maddening glamour, With the wild White Maids, to the hills, to the hills! Oh, then, like a colt as he runs by a river, A colt by his dam, when the heart of him sings, With the keen limbs drawn and the fleet foot a-quiver, Away the Bacchanal springs! [_Enter_ TEIRESIAS. _He is an old man and blind, leaning upon a staff and moving with slow stateliness, though wearing the Ivy and the Bacchic fawn-skin_.] TEIRESIAS Ho, there, who keeps the gate?--Go, summon me Cadmus, Agênor's son, who crossed the sea From Sidon and upreared this Theban hold. Go, whosoe'er thou art. See he be told Teiresias seeketh him. Himself will gauge Mine errand, and the compact, age with age, I vowed with him, grey hair with snow-white hair, To deck the new God's thyrsus, and to wear His fawn-skin, and with ivy crown our brows. [_Enter_ CADMUS _from the Castle. He is even older than_ TEIRESIAS, _and wears the same attire_.] CADMUS True friend! I knew that voice of thine, that flows Like mellow wisdom from a fountain wise. And, lo, I come prepared, in all the guise And harness of this God. Are we not told His is the soul of that dead life of old That sprang from mine own daughter? Surely then Must thou and I with all the strength of men Exalt him. Where then shall I stand, where tread The dance and toss this bowed and hoary head? O friend, in thee is wisdom; guide my grey And eld-worn steps, eld-worn Teiresias.--Nay; I am not weak. [_At the first movement of worship his manner begins to change; a mysterious strength and exaltation enter into him._] Surely this arm could smite The wild earth with its thyrsus, day and night, And faint not! Sweetly and forgetfully The dim years fall from off me! TEIRESIAS As with thee, With me 'tis likewise. Light am I and young, And will essay the dancing and the song. CADMUS Quick, then, our chariots to the mountain road. TEIRESIAS Nay; to take steeds were to mistrust the God. CADMUS So be it. Mine old arms shall guide thee there. TEIRESIAS The God himself shall guide! Have thou no care. CADMUS And in all Thebes shall no man dance but we? TEIRESIAS Aye, Thebes is blinded. Thou and I can see. CADMUS 'Tis weary waiting; hold my hand, friend; so. TEIRESIAS Lo, there is mine. So linkèd let us go. CADMUS Shall things of dust the Gods' dark ways despise? TEIRESIAS Or prove our wit on Heaven's high mysteries? Not thou and I! That heritage sublime Our sires have left us, wisdom old as time, No word of man, how deep soe'er his thought And won of subtlest toil, may bring to naught. Aye, men will rail that I forgot my years, To dance and wreath with ivy these white hairs; What recks it? Seeing the God no line hath told To mark what man shall dance, or young or old; But craves his honours from mortality All, no man marked apart; and great shall be! CADMUS (_after looking away toward the Mountain_). Teiresias, since this light thou canst not read, I must be seer for thee. Here comes in speed Pentheus, Echîon's son, whom I have raised To rule my people in my stead.--Amazed He seems. Stand close, and mark what we shall hear. [_The two stand back, partially concealed, while there enters in hot haste_ PENTHEUS, _followed by a bodyguard. He is speaking to the_ SOLDIER _in command._] PENTHEUS Scarce had I crossed our borders, when mine ear Was caught by this strange rumour, that our own Wives, our own sisters, from their hearths are flown To wild and secret rites; and cluster there High on the shadowy hills, with dance and prayer To adore this new-made God, this Dionyse, Whate'er he be!--And in their companies Deep wine-jars stand, and ever and anon Away into the loneliness now one Steals forth, and now a second, maid or dame Where love lies waiting, not of God! The flame They say, of Bacchios wraps them. Bacchios! Nay, 'Tis more to Aphrodite that they pray. Howbeit, all that I have found, my men Hold bound and shackled in our dungeon den; The rest, I will go hunt them! Aye, and snare My birds with nets of iron, to quell their prayer And mountain song and rites of rascaldom! They tell me, too, there is a stranger come, A man of charm and spell, from Lydian seas, A head all gold and cloudy fragrancies, A wine-red cheek, and eyes that hold the light Of the very Cyprian. Day and livelong night He haunts amid the damsels, o'er each lip Dangling his cup of joyance! Let me grip Him once, but once, within these walls, right swift That wand shall cease its music, and that drift Of tossing curls lie still--when my rude sword Falls between neck and trunk! 'Tis all his word, This tale of Dionysus; how that same Babe that was blasted by the lightning flame With his dead mother, for that mother's lie, Was re-conceived, born perfect from the thigh Of Zeus, and now is God! What call ye these? Dreams? Gibes of the unknown wanderer? Blasphemies That crave the very gibbet? Stay! God wot, Here is another marvel! See I not In motley fawn-skins robed the vision-seer Teiresias? And my mother's father here-- O depth of scorn!--adoring with the wand Of Bacchios?--Father!--Nay, mine eyes are fond; It is not your white heads so fancy-flown! It cannot be! Cast off that ivy crown, O mine own mother's sire! Set free that hand That cowers about its staff. 'Tis thou hast planned This work, Teiresias! 'Tis thou must set Another altar and another yet Amongst us, watch new birds, and win more hire Of gold, interpreting new signs of fire! But for thy silver hairs, I tell thee true, Thou now wert sitting chained amid thy crew Of raving damsels, for this evil dream Thou hast brought us, of new Gods! When once the gleam Of grapes hath lit a Woman's Festival, In all their prayers is no more health at all! LEADER OF THE CHORUS (_the words are not heard by_ PENTHEUS) Injurious King, hast thou no fear of God, Nor Cadmus, sower of the Giants' Sod, Life-spring to great Echîon and to thee? TEIRESIAS Good words my son, come easily, when he That speaks is wise, and speaks but for the right. Else come they never! Swift are thine, and bright As though with thought, yet have no thought at all Lo this new God, whom thou dost flout withal, I cannot speak the greatness wherewith He In Hellas shall be great! Two spirits there be, Young Prince, that in man's world are first of worth. Dêmêtêr one is named; she is the Earth-- Call her which name thou will!--who feeds man's frame With sustenance of things dry. And that which came Her work to perfect, second, is the Power From Semelê born. He found the liquid show Hid in the grape. He rests man's spirit dim From grieving, when the vine exalteth him. He giveth sleep to sink the fretful day In cool forgetting. Is there any way With man's sore heart, save only to forget? Yea, being God, the blood of him is set Before the Gods in sacrifice, that we For his sake may be blest.--And so, to thee, That fable shames him, how this God was knit Into God's flesh? Nay, learn the truth of it Cleared from the false.--When from that deadly light Zeus saved the babe, and up to Olympus' height Raised him, and Hera's wrath would cast him thence Then Zeus devised him a divine defence. A fragment of the world-encircling fire He rent apart, and wrought to his desire Of shape and hue, in the image of the child, And gave to Hera's rage. And so, beguiled By change and passing time, this tale was born, How the babe-god was hidden in the torn Flesh of his sire. He hath no shame thereby. A prophet is he likewise. Prophecy Cleaves to all frenzy, but beyond all else To frenzy of prayer. Then in us verily dwells The God himself, and speaks the thing to be. Yea, and of Ares' realm a part hath he. When mortal armies, mailêd and arrayed, Have in strange fear, or ever blade met blade, Fled maddened, 'tis this God hath palsied them. Aye, over Delphi's rock-built diadem Thou yet shalt see him leaping with his train Of fire across the twin-peaked mountain-plain, Flaming the darkness with his mystic wand, And great in Hellas.--List and understand, King Pentheus! Dream not thou that force is power; Nor, if thou hast a thought, and that thought sour And sick, oh, dream not thought is wisdom!--Up, Receive this God to Thebes; pour forth the cup Of sacrifice, and pray, and wreathe thy brow. Thou fearest for the damsels? Think thee now; How toucheth this the part of Dionyse To hold maids pure perforce? In them it lies, And their own hearts; and in the wildest rite Cometh no stain to her whose heart is white. Nay, mark me! Thou hast thy joy, when the Gate Stands thronged, and Pentheus' name is lifted great And high by Thebes in clamour; shall not He Rejoice in his due meed of majesty? Howbeit, this Cadmus whom thou scorn'st and I Will wear His crown, and tread His dances! Aye, Our hairs are white, yet shall that dance be trod! I will not lift mine arm to war with God For thee nor all thy words. Madness most fell Is on thee, madness wrought by some dread spell, But not by spell nor leechcraft to be cured! CHORUS Grey prophet, worthy of Phoebus is thy word, And wise in honouring Bromios, our great God. CADMUS My son, right well Teiresias points thy road. Oh, make thine habitation here with us, Not lonely, against men's uses. Hazardous Is this quick bird-like beating of thy thought Where no thought dwells.--Grant that this God be naught, Yet let that Naught be Somewhat in thy mouth; Lie boldly, and say He is! So north and south Shall marvel, how there sprang a thing divine From Semelê's flesh, and honour all our line. [_Drawing nearer to_ PENTHEUS.] Is there not blood before thine eyes even now? Our lost Actaeon's blood, whom long ago His own red hounds through yonder forest dim Tore unto death, because he vaunted him Against most holy Artemis? Oh, beware And let me wreathe thy temples. Make thy prayer With us, and walk thee humbly in God's sight. [_He makes as if to set the wreath on_ PENTHEUS _head_.] PENTHEUS Down with that hand! Aroint thee to thy rite Nor smear on me thy foul contagion! [Turning upon TEIRESIAS.] This Thy folly's head and prompter shall not miss The justice that he needs!--Go, half my guard Forth to the rock-seat where he dwells in ward O'er birds and wonders; rend the stone with crown And trident; make one wreck of high and low And toss his bands to all the winds of air! Ha, have I found the way to sting thee, there? The rest, forth through the town! And seek amain This girl-faced stranger, that hath wrought such bane To all Thebes, preying on our maids and wives Seek till ye find; and lead him here in gyves, Till he be judged and stoned and weep in blood The day he troubled Pentheus with his God! [_The guards set forth in two bodies_; PENTHEUS _goes into the Castle._] TEIRESIAS Hard heart, how little dost thou know what seed Thou sowest! Blind before, and now indeed Most mad!--Come, Cadmus, let us go our way, And pray for this our persecutor, pray For this poor city, that the righteous God Move not in anger.--Take thine ivy rod And help my steps, as I help thine. 'Twere ill, If two old men should fall by the roadway. Still, Come what come may, our service shall be done To Bacchios, the All-Father's mystic son O Pentheus, named of sorrow! Shall he claim From all thy house fulfilment of his name, Old Cadmus?--Nay, I speak not from mine art, But as I see--blind words and a blind heart! [_The two Old Men go off towards the Mountain._] CHORUS _Some Maidens_ Thou Immaculate on high; Thou Recording Purity; Thou that stoopest, Golden Wing, Earthward, manward, pitying, Hearest thou this angry King? Hearest thou the rage and scorn 'Gainst the Lord of Many Voices, Him of mortal mother born, Him in whom man's heart rejoices, Girt with garlands and with glee, First in Heaven's sovranty? For his kingdom, it is there, In the dancing and the prayer, In the music and the laughter, In the vanishing of care, And of all before and after; In the Gods' high banquet, when Gleams the graperflood, flashed to heaven; Yea, and in the feasts of men Comes his crownèd slumber; then Pain is dead and hate forgiven! _Others_ Loose thy lips from out the rein; Lift thy wisdom to disdain; Whatso law thou canst not see, Scorning; so the end shall be Uttermost calamity! 'Tis the life of quiet breath, 'Tis the simple and the true, Storm nor earthquake shattereth, Nor shall aught the house undo Where they dwell. For, far away, Hidden from the eyes of day, Watchers are there in the skies, That can see man's life, and prize Deeds well done by things of clay. But the world's Wise are not wise, Claiming more than mortal may. Life is such a little thing; Lo, their present is departed, And the dreams to which they cling Come not. Mad imagining Theirs, I ween, and empty-hearted! _Divers Maidens_ Where is the Home for me? O Cyprus, set in the sea, Aphrodite's home In the soft sea-foam, Would I could wend to thee; Where the wings of the Loves are furled, And faint the heart of the world. Aye, unto Paphos' isle, Where the rainless meadows smile With riches rolled From the hundred-fold Mouths of the far-off Nile, Streaming beneath the waves To the roots of the seaward caves. But a better land is there Where Olympus cleaves the air, The high still dell Where the Muses dwell, Fairest of all things fair! O there is Grace, and there is the Heart's Desire, And peace to adore thee, thou Spirit of Guiding Fire! * * * * * A God of Heaven is he, And born in majesty; Yet hath he mirth In the joy of the Earth, And he loveth constantly Her who brings increase, The Feeder of Children, Peace. No grudge hath he of the great; No scorn of the mean estate; But to all that liveth His wine he giveth, Griefless, immaculate; Only on them that spurn Joy, may his anger burn. Love thou the Day and the Night; Be glad of the Dark and the Light; And avert thine eyes From the lore of the wise, That have honour in proud men's sight. The simple nameless herd of Humanity Hath deeds and faith that are truth enough for me! [_As the Chorus ceases, a party of the guards return, leading in the midst of them_ DIONYSUS, _bound. The_ SOLDIER _in command stands forth, as_ PENTHEUS, _hearing the tramp of feet, comes out from the Castle._] SOLDIER Our quest is finished, and thy prey, O King, Caught; for the chase was swift, and this wild thing Most tame; yet never flinched, nor thought to flee, But held both hands out unresistingly-- No change, no blanching of the wine-red cheek. He waited while we came, and bade us wreak All thy decree; yea, laughed, and made my best Easy, till I for very shame confessed And said: "O stranger, not of mine own will I bind thee, but his bidding to fulfil Who sent me." And those prisoned Maids withal Whom thou didst seize and bind within the wall Of thy great dungeon, they are fled, O King. Free in the woods, a-dance and glorying To Bromios. Of their own impulse fell To earth, men say, fetter and manacle, And bars slid back untouched of mortal hand Yea, full of many wonders to thy land Is this man come.... Howbeit, it lies with thee! PENTHEUS Ye are mad!--Unhand him. Howso swift he be, My toils are round him and he shall not fly. [_The guards loose the arms of_ DIONYSUS; PENTHEUS _studies him for a while in silence then speaks jeeringly._ DIONYSUS _remains gentle and unafraid._] Marry, a fair shape for a woman's eye, Sir stranger! And thou seek'st no more, I ween! Long curls, withal! That shows thou ne'er hast been A wrestler!--down both cheeks so softly tossed And winsome! And a white skin! It hath cost Thee pains, to please thy damsels with this white And red of cheeks that never face the light! [_DIONYSUS is silent._] Speak, sirrah; tell me first thy name and race. DIONYSUS No glory is therein, nor yet disgrace. Thou hast heard of Tmolus, the bright hill of flowers? PENTHEUS Surely, the ridge that winds by Sardis towers. DIONYSUS Thence am I; Lydia was my fatherland. PENTHEUS And whence these revelations, that thy band Spreadeth in Hellas? DIONYSUS Their intent and use Dionysus oped to me, the Child of Zeus. PENTHEUS (_brutally_) Is there a Zeus there, that can still beget Young Gods? DIONYSUS Nay, only He whose seal was set Here in thy Thebes on Semele. PENTHEUS What way Descended he upon thee? In full day Or vision of night? DIONYSUS Most clear he stood, and scanned My soul, and gave his emblems to mine hand. PENTHEUS What like be they, these emblems? DIONYSUS That may none Reveal, nor know, save his Elect alone. PENTHEUS And what good bring they to the worshipper? DIONYSUS Good beyond price, but not for thee to hear. PENTHEUS Thou trickster? Thou wouldst prick me on the more To seek them out! DIONYSUS His mysteries abhor The touch of sin-lovers. PENTHEUS And so thine eyes Saw this God plain; what guise had he? DIONYSUS What guise It liked him. 'Twas not I ordained his shape. PENTHEUS Aye, deftly turned again. An idle jape, And nothing answered! DIONYSUS Wise words being brought To blinded eyes will seem as things of nought. PENTHEUS And comest thou first to Thebes, to have thy God Established? DIONYSUS Nay; all Barbary hath trod His dance ere this. PENTHEUS A low blind folk, I ween, Beside our Hellenes! DIONYSUS Higher and more keen In this thing, though their ways are not thy way. PENTHEUS How is thy worship held, by night or day? DIONYSUS Most oft by night; 'tis a majestic thing, The darkness. PENTHEUS Ha! with women worshipping? 'Tis craft and rottenness! DIONYSUS By day no less, Whoso will seek may find unholiness-- PENTHEUS Enough! Thy doom is fixed, for false pretence Corrupting Thebes. DIONYSUS Not mine; but thine, for dense Blindness of heart, and for blaspheming God! PENTHEUS A ready knave it is, and brazen-browed, This mystery-priest! DIONYSUS Come, say what it shall be, My doom; what dire thing wilt thou do to me? PENTHEUS First, shear that delicate curl that dangles there. [_He beckons to the soldiers, who approach_ DIONYSUS.] DIONYSUS I have vowed it to my God; 'tis holy hair. [_The soldiers cut off the tress_.] PENTHEUS Next, yield me up thy staff! DIONYSUS Raise thine own hand To take it. This is Dionysus' wand. [PENTHEUS _takes the staff_.] PENTHEUS Last, I will hold thee prisoned here. DIONYSUS My Lord God will unloose me, when I speak the word. PENTHEUS He may, if e'er again amid his bands Of saints he hears thy voice! DIONYSUS Even now he stands Close here, and sees all that I suffer. PENTHEUS What? Where is he? For mine eyes discern him not. DIONYSUS Where I am! 'Tis thine own impurity That veils him from thee. PENTHEUS The dog jeers at me! At me and Thebes! Bind him! [_The soldiers begin to bind him_.] DIONYSUS I charge ye, bind Me not! I having vision and ye blind! PENTHEUS And I, with better right, say bind the more! [_The soldiers obey_.] DIONYSUS Thou knowest not what end thou seekest, nor What deed thou doest, nor what man thou art! PENTHEUS (_mocking_) Agâvê's son, and on the father's part Echion's, hight Pentheus! DIONYSUS So let it be, A name fore-written to calamity! PENTHEUS Away, and tie him where the steeds are tied; Aye, let him lie in the manger!--There abide And stare into the darkness!--And this rout Of womankind that clusters thee about, Thy ministers of worship, are my slaves! It may be I will sell them o'er the waves, Hither and thither; else they shall be set To labour at my distaffs, and forget Their timbrel and their songs of dawning day! DIONYSUS I go; for that which may not be, I may Not suffer! Yet for this thy sin, lo, He Whom thou deniest cometh after thee For recompense. Yea, in thy wrong to us, Thou hast cast Him into thy prison-house! [DIONYSUS, _without his wand, his hair shorn, and his arms tightly bound, is led off by the guards to his dungeon._ PENTHEUS _returns into the Palace._] CHORUS _Some Maidens_ Achelous' roaming daughter, Holy Dircê, virgin water, Bathed he not of old in thee, The Babe of God, the Mystery? When from out the fire immortal To himself his God did take him, To his own flesh, and bespake him: "Enter now life's second portal, Motherless Mystery; lo, I break Mine own body for thy sake, Thou of the Twofold Door, and seal thee Mine, O Bromios,"--thus he spake-- "And to this thy land reveal thee." _All_ Still my prayer toward thee quivers, Dircê, still to thee I hie me; Why, O Blessed among Rivers, Wilt thou fly me and deny me? By His own joy I vow, By the grape upon the bough, Thou shalt seek Him in the midnight, thou shalt love Him, even now! _Other Maidens_ Dark and of the dark impassioned Is this Pentheus' blood; yea, fashioned Of the Dragon, and his birth From Echion, child of Earth. He is no man, but a wonder; Did the Earth-Child not beget him, As a red Giant, to set him Against God, against the Thunder? He will bind me for his prize, Me, the Bride of Dionyse; And my priest, my friend, is taken Even now, and buried lies; In the dark he lies forsaken! _All_ Lo, we race with death, we perish, Dionysus, here before thee! Dost thou mark us not, nor cherish, Who implore thee, and adore thee? Hither down Olympus' side, Come, O Holy One defied, Be thy golden wand uplifted o'er the tyrant in his pride! _A Maiden_ Oh, where art thou? In thine own Nysa, thou our help alone? O'er fierce beasts in orient lands Doth thy thronging thyrsus wave, By the high Corycian Cave, Or where stern Olympus stands; In the elm-woods and the oaken, There where Orpheus harped of old, And the trees awoke and knew him, And the wild things gathered to him, As he sang amid the broken Glens his music manifold? Dionysus loveth thee; Blessed Land of Piërie, He will come to thee with dancing, Come with joy and mystery; With the Maenads at his hest Winding, winding to the West; Cross the flood of swiftly glancing Axios in majesty; Cross the Lydias, the giver Of good gifts and waving green; Cross that Father-Stream of story, Through a land of steeds and glory Rolling, bravest, fairest River E'er of mortals seen! A VOICE WITHIN Io! Io! Awake, ye damsels; hear my cry, Calling my Chosen; hearken ye! A MAIDEN Who speaketh? Oh, what echoes thus? ANOTHER A Voice, a Voice, that calleth us! THE VOICE Be of good cheer! Lo, it is I, The Child of Zeus and Semelê. A MAIDEN O Master, Master, it is Thou! ANOTHER O Holy Voice, be with us now! THE VOICE Spirit of the Chained Earthquake, Hear my word; awake, awake! [_An Earthquake suddenly shakes the pillars of the Castle._] A MAIDEN Ha! what is coming? Shall the hall Of Pentheus racked in ruin fall? LEADER Our God is in the house! Ye maids adore Him! CHORUS We adore Him all! THE VOICE Unveil the Lightning's eye; arouse The fire that sleeps, against this house! [_Fire leaps upon the Tomb of Semelê._] A MAIDEN Ah, saw ye, marked ye there the flame From Semelê's enhallowed sod Awakened? Yea, the Death that came Ablaze from heaven of old, the same Hot splendour of the shaft of God? LEADER Oh cast ye, cast ye, to the earth! The Lord Cometh against this house! Oh, cast ye down, Ye trembling damsels; He, our own adored, God's Child hath come, and all is overthrown! [_The Maidens cast themselves upon the ground, their eyes earthward._ DIONYSUS, _alone and unbound, enters from the Castle._] DIONYSUS Ye Damsels of the Morning Hills, why lie ye thus dismayed? Ye marked him, then, our Master, and the mighty hand he laid On tower and rock, shaking the house of Pentheus?--But arise, And cast the trembling from your flesh, and lift untroubled eyes. LEADER O Light in Darkness, is it thou? O Priest, is this thy face? My heart leaps out to greet thee from the deep of loneliness. DIONYSUS Fell ye so quick despairing, when beneath the Gate I passed? Should the gates of Pentheus quell me, or his darkness make me fast? LEADER Oh, what was left if thou wert gone? What could I but despair? How hast thou 'scaped the man of sin? Who freed thee from the snare? DIONYSUS I had no pain nor peril; 'twas mine own hand set me free. LEADER Thine arms were gyvèd! DIONYSUS Nay, no gyve, no touch, was laid on me! 'Twas there I mocked him, in his gyves, and gave him dreams for food. For when he laid me down, behold, before the stall there stood A Bull of Offering. And this King, he bit his lips and straight Fell on and bound it, hoof and limb, with gasping wrath and sweat. And I sat watching!--Then a Voice; and lo, our Lord was come, And the house shook, and a great flame stood o'er his mother's tomb. And Pentheus hied this way and that, and called his thralls amain For water, lest his roof-tree burn; and all toiled, all in vain. Then deemed a-sudden I was gone; and left his fire, and sped Back to the prison portals, and his lifted sword shone red. But there, methinks, the God had wrought--I speak but as I guess-- Some dream-shape in mine image; for he smote at emptiness, Stabbed in the air, and strove in wrath, as though 'twere me he slew. Then 'mid his dreams God smote him yet again! He overthrew All that high house. And there in wreck for evermore it lies, That the day of this my bondage may be sore in Pentheus' eyes! And now his sword is fallen, and he lies outworn and wan Who dared to rise against his God in wrath, being but man. And I uprose and left him, and in all peace took my path Force to my Chosen, recking light of Pentheus and his wrath. But soft, methinks a footstep sounds even now within the hall; 'Tis he; how think ye he will stand, and what words speak withal? I will endure him gently, though he come in fury hot. For still are the ways of Wisdom, and her temper trembleth not! [_Enter_ PENTHEUS _in fury_] PENTHEUS It is too much! This Eastern knave hath slipped His prison, whom I held but now, hard gripped In bondage.--Ha! 'Tis he!--What, sirrah, how Show'st thou before my portals? [_He advances furiously upon him._] DIONYSUS And set a quiet carriage to thy rage. PENTHEUS How comest thou here? How didst thou break thy cage? Speak! DIONYSUS Said I not, or didst thou mark not me, There was One living that should set me free? PENTHEUS Who? Ever wilder are these tales of thine. DIONYSUS He who first made for man the clustered vine. PENTHEUS I scorn him and his vines. DIONYSUS For Dionyse 'Tis well; for in thy scorn his glory lies. PENTHEUS (_to his guard_) Go swift to all the towers, and bar withal Each gate! DIONYSUS What, cannot God o'erleap a wall? PENTHEUS Oh, wit thou hast, save where thou needest it! DIONYSUS Whereso it most imports, there is my wit!-- Nay, peace! Abide till he who hasteth from The mountain side with news for thee, be come. We will not fly, but wait on thy command. [_Enter suddenly and in haste a Messenger from the Mountain._] MESSENGER Great Pentheus, Lord of all this Theban land, I come from high Kithaeron, where the frore Snow spangles gleam and cease not evermore.... PENTHEUS And what of import may thy coming bring? MESSENGER I have seen the Wild White Women there, O King, Whose fleet limbs darted arrow-like but now From Thebes away, and come to tell thee how They work strange deeds and passing marvel. Yet I first would learn thy pleasure. Shall I set My whole tale forth, or veil the stranger part? Yea Lord, I fear the swiftness of thy heart, Thine edgèd wrath and more than royal soul. PENTHEUS Thy tale shall nothing scathe thee.--Tell the whole. It skills not to be wroth with honesty. Nay, if thy news of them be dark, 'tis he Shall pay it, who bewitched and led them on. MESSENGER Our herded kine were moving in the dawn Up to the peaks, the greyest, coldest time, When the first rays steal earthward, and the rime Yields, when I saw three bands of them. The one Autonoë led, one Ino, one thine own Mother, Agâvê. There beneath the trees Sleeping they lay, like wild things flung at ease In the forest; one half sinking on a bed Of deep pine greenery; one with careless head Amid the fallen oak leaves; all most cold In purity--not as thy tale was told Of wine-cups and wild music and the chase For love amid the forest's loneliness. Then rose the Queen Agâvê suddenly Amid her band, and gave the God's wild cry, "Awake, ye Bacchanals! I hear the sound Of hornèd kine. Awake ye!"--Then, all round, Alert, the warm sleep fallen from their eyes, A marvel of swift ranks I saw them rise, Dames young and old, and gentle maids unwed Among them. O'er their shoulders first they shed Their tresses, and caught up the fallen fold Of mantles where some clasp had loosened hold, And girt the dappled fawn-skins in with long Quick snakes that hissed and writhed with quivering tongue. And one a young fawn held, and one a wild Wolf cub, and fed them with white milk, and smiled In love, young mothers with a mother's breast And babes at home forgotten! Then they pressed Wreathed ivy round their brows, and oaken sprays And flowering bryony. And one would raise Her wand and smite the rock, and straight a jet Of quick bright water came. Another set Her thyrsus in the bosomed earth, and there Was red wine that the God sent up to her, A darkling fountain. And if any lips Sought whiter draughts, with dipping finger-tips They pressed the sod, and gushing from the ground Came springs of milk. And reed-wands ivy-crowned Ran with sweet honey, drop by drop.--O King, Hadst thou been there, as I, and seen this thing, With prayer and most high wonder hadst thou gone To adore this God whom now thou rail'st upon! Howbeit, the kine-wardens and shepherds straight Came to one place, amazed, and held debate; And one being there who walked the streets and scanned The ways of speech, took lead of them whose hand Knew but the slow soil and the solemn hill, And flattering spoke, and asked: "Is it your will, Masters, we stay the mother of the King, Agâvê, from her lawless worshipping, And win us royal thanks?"--And this seemed good To all; and through the branching underwood We hid us, cowering in the leaves. And there Through the appointed hour they made their prayer And worship of the Wand, with one accord Of heart and cry--"Iacchos, Bromios, Lord, God of God born!"--And all the mountain felt, And worshipped with them; and the wild things knelt And ramped and gloried, and the wilderness Was filled with moving voices and dim stress. Soon, as it chanced, beside my thicket-close The Queen herself passed dancing, and I rose And sprang to seize her. But she turned her face Upon me: "Ho, my rovers of the chase, My wild White Hounds, we are hunted! Up, each rod And follow, follow, for our Lord and God!" Thereat, for fear they tear us, all we fled Amazed; and on, with hand unweaponèd They swept toward our herds that browsed the green Hill grass. Great uddered kine then hadst thou seen Bellowing in sword-like hands that cleave and tear, A live steer riven asunder, and the air Tossed with rent ribs or limbs of cloven tread, And flesh upon the branches, and a red Rain from the deep green pines. Yea, bulls of pride, Horns swift to rage, were fronted and aside Flung stumbling, by those multitudinous hands Dragged pitilessly. And swifter were the bands Of garbèd flesh and bone unbound withal Than on thy royal eyes the lids may fall. Then on like birds, by their own speed upborne, They swept toward the plains of waving corn That lie beside Asopus' banks, and bring To Thebes the rich fruit of her harvesting. On Hysiae and Erythrae that lie nursed Amid Kithaeron's bowering rocks, they burst Destroying, as a foeman's army comes. They caught up little children from their homes, High on their shoulders, babes unheld, that swayed And laughed and fell not; all a wreck they made; Yea, bronze and iron did shatter, and in play Struck hither and thither, yet no wound had they; Caught fire from out the hearths, yea, carried hot Flames in their tresses and were scorchèd not! The village folk in wrath took spear and sword, And turned upon the Bacchae. Then, dread Lord, The wonder was. For spear nor barbèd brand Could scathe nor touch the damsels; but the Wand, The soft and wreathèd wand their white hands sped, Blasted those men and quelled them, and they fled Dizzily. Sure some God was in these things! And the holy women back to those strange springs Returned, that God had sent them when the day Dawned, on the upper heights; and washed away The stain of battle. And those girdling snakes Hissed out to lap the waterdrops from cheeks And hair and breast. Therefore I counsel thee O King, receive this Spirit, whoe'er he be, To Thebes in glory. Greatness manifold Is all about him; and the tale is told That this is he who first to man did give The grief-assuaging vine. Oh, let him live; For if he die, then Love herself is slain, And nothing joyous in the world again! LEADER Albeit I tremble, and scarce may speak my thought To a king's face, yet will I hide it not. Dionyse is God, no God more true nor higher! PENTHEUS It bursts hard by us, like a smothered fire, This frenzy of Bacchic women! All my land Is made their mock.--This needs an iron hand! Ho, Captain! Quick to the Electran Gate; Bid gather all my men-at-arms thereat; Call all that spur the charger, all who know To wield the orbèd targe or bend the bow; We march to war--'Fore God, shall women dare Such deeds against us? 'Tis too much to bear! DIONYSUS Thou mark'st me not, O King, and holdest light My solemn words; yet, in thine own despite, I warn thee still. Lift thou not up thy spear Against a God, but hold thy peace, and fear His wrath! He will not brook it, if thou fright His Chosen from the hills of their delight. PENTHEUS Peace, thou! And if for once thou hast slipped chain, Give thanks!--Or shall I knot thine arms again? DIONYSUS Better to yield him prayer and sacrifice Than kick against the pricks, since Dionyse Is God, and thou but mortal. PENTHEUS That will I! Yea, sacrifice of women's blood, to cry His name through all Kithaeron! DIONYSUS Ye shall fly, All, and abase your shields of bronzen rim Before their wands. PENTHEUS There is no way with him, This stranger that so dogs us! Well or ill I may entreat him, he must babble still! DIONYSUS Wait, good my friend! These crooked matters may Even yet be straightened. [PENTHEUS _has started as though to seek his army at the gate._] PENTHEUS Aye, if I obey Mine own slaves' will; how else? DIONYSUS Myself will lead The damsels hither, without sword or steed. PENTHEUS How now?--This is some plot against me! DIONYSUS What Dost fear? Only to save thee do I plot. PENTHEUS It is some compact ye have made, whereby To dance these hills for ever! DIONYSUS Verily, That is my compact, plighted with my Lord! PENTHEUS (_turning from him_) Ho, armourers! Bring forth my shield and sword!-- And thou, be silent! DIONYSUS (_after regarding him fixedly, speaks with resignation_) Ah!--Have then thy will! [_He fixes his eyes upon_ PENTHEUS _again, while the armourers bring out his armour; then speaks in a tone of command._] Man, thou wouldst fain behold them on the hill Praying! PENTHEUS (_who during the rest of this scene, with a few exceptions, simply speaks the thoughts that_ DIONYSUS _puts into him, losing power over his own mind_) That would I, though it cost me all The gold of Thebes! DIONYSUS So much? Thou art quick to fall To such great longing. PENTHEUS (_somewhat bewildered at what he has said_) Aye; 'twould grieve me much To see them flown with wine. DIONYSUS Yet cravest thou such A sight as would much grieve thee? PENTHEUS Yes; I fain Would watch, ambushed among the pines. DIONYSUS 'Twere vain To hide. They soon will track thee out. PENTHEUS Well said! 'Twere best done openly. DIONYSUS Wilt thou be led By me, and try the venture? PENTHEUS Aye, indeed! Lead on. Why should we tarry? DIONYSUS First we need A rich and trailing robe of fine-linen To gird thee. PENTHEUS Nay; am I a woman, then, And no man more. DIONYSUS Wouldst have them slay thee dead? No man may see their mysteries. PENTHEUS Well said'-- I marked thy subtle temper long ere now. DIONYSUS 'Tis Dionyse that prompteth me. PENTHEUS And how Mean'st thou the further plan? DIONYSUS First take thy way Within. I will array thee. PENTHEUS What array! The woman's? Nay, I will not. DIONYSUS Doth it change So soon, all thy desire to see this strange Adoring? PENTHEUS Wait! What garb wilt thou bestow About me? DIONYSUS First a long tress dangling low Beneath thy shoulders. PENTHEUS Aye, and next? DIONYSUS The same red Robe, falling to thy feet; and on thine head A snood. PENTHEUS And after? Hast thou aught beyond? DIONYSUS Surely; the dappled fawn-skin and the wand. PENTHEUS (_after a struggle with himself_) Enough! I cannot wear a robe and snood. DIONYSUS Wouldst liefer draw the sword and spill men's blood? PENTHEUS (_again doubting_) True, that were evil.--Aye; 'tis best to go First to some place of watch. DIONYSUS Far wiser so, Than seek by wrath wrath's bitter recompense. PENTHEUS What of the city streets? Canst lead me hence Unseen of any? DIONYSUS Lonely and untried Thy path from hence shall be, and I thy guide! PENTHEUS I care for nothing, so these Bacchanals Triumph not against me! ...Forward to my halls Within!--I will ordain what seemeth best. DIONYSUS So be it, O King! 'Tis mine to obey thine hest, Whate'er it be. PENTHEUS (_after hesitating once more and waiting_) Well, I will go--perchance To march and scatter them with serried lance. Perchance to take thy plan.... I know not yet. [_Exit_ PENTHEUS _into the Castle._] DIONYSUS Damsels, the lion walketh to the net! He finds his Bacchae now, and sees and dies, And pays for all his sin!--O Dionyse, This is thine hour and thou not far away. Grant us our vengeance!--First, O Master, stay The course of reason in him, and instil A foam of madness. Let his seeing will, Which ne'er had stooped to put thy vesture on, Be darkened, till the deed is lightly done. Grant likewise that he find through all his streets Loud scorn, this man of wrath and bitter threats That made Thebes tremble, led in woman's guise. I go to fold that robe of sacrifice On Pentheus, that shall deck him to the dark. His mother's gift!--So shall he learn and mark God's true Son, Dionyse, in fulness God, Most fearful, yet to man most soft of mood. [_Exit_ DIONYSUS, _following PENTHEUS into Castle._] CHORUS _Some Maidens_ Will they ever come to me, ever again, The long long dances, On through the dark till the dim stars wane? Shall I feel the dew on my throat, and the stream Of wind in my hair? Shall our white feet gleam In the dim expanses? Oh, feet of a fawn to the greenwood fled, Alone in the grass and the loveliness; Leap of the hunted, no more in dread, Beyond the snares and the deadly press: Yet a voice still in the distance sounds, A voice and a fear and a haste of hounds; O wildly labouring, fiercely fleet, Onward yet by river and glen ... Is it joy or terror, ye storm-swift feet? ... To the dear lone lands untroubled of men, Where no voice sounds, and amid the shadowy green The little things of the woodland live unseen. What else is Wisdom? What of man's endeavour Or God's high grace, so lovely and so great? To stand from fear set free, to breathe and wait; To hold a hand uplifted over Hate; And shall not Loveliness be loved for ever? _Others_ O Strength of God, slow art thou and still, Yet failest never! On them that worship the Ruthless Will, On them that dream, doth His judgment wait. Dreams of the proud man, making great And greater ever, Things which are not of God. In wide And devious coverts, hunter-wise, He coucheth Time's unhasting stride, Following, following, him whose eyes Look not to Heaven. For all is vain, The pulse of the heart, the plot of the brain, That striveth beyond the laws that live. And is thy Fate so much to give, Is it so hard a thing to see, That the Spirit of God, whate'er it be, The Law that abides and changes not, ages long, The Eternal and Nature-born--these things be strong? What else is Wisdom? What of man's endeavour Or God's high grace so lovely and so great? To stand from fear set free, to breathe and wait; To hold a hand uplifted over Hate; And shall not Loveliness be loved for ever? LEADER Happy he, on the weary sea Who hath fled the tempest and won the haven. Happy whoso hath risen, free, Above his striving. For strangely graven Is the orb of life, that one and another In gold and power may outpass his brother, And men in their millions float and flow And seethe with a million hopes as leaven; And they win their Will, or they miss their Will, And the hopes are dead or are pined for still, But whoe'er can know, As the long days go, That To Live is happy, hath found his Heaven! [_Re-enter_ DIONYSUS, _from the Castle_] DIONYSUS O eye that cravest sights thou must not see, O heart athirst for that which slakes not! Thee, Pentheus, I call; forth and be seen, in guise Of woman, Maenad, saint of Dionyse, To spy upon His Chosen and thine own Mother! [_Enter_ PENTHEUS, _clad like a Bacchanal, and strangely excited, a spirit of Bacchic madness overshadowing him._] Thy shape, methinks, is like to one Of Cadmus' royal maids! PENTHEUS Yea; and mine eye Is bright! Yon sun shines twofold in the sky, Thebes twofold and the Wall of Seven Gates.... And is it a Wild Bull this, that walks and waits Before me? There are horns upon thy brow! What art thou, man or beast! For surely now The Bull is on thee! DIONYSUS He who erst was wrath, Goes with us now in gentleness. He hath Unsealed thine eyes to see what thou shouldst see. PENTHEUS Say; stand I not as Ino stands, or she Who bore me? DIONYSUS When I look on thee, it seems I see their very selves!--But stay; why streams That lock abroad, not where I laid it, crossed Under the coif? PENTHEUS I did it, as I tossed My head in dancing, to and fro, and cried His holy music! DIONYSUS (_tending him_) It shall soon be tied Aright. 'Tis mine to tend thee. . . . Nay, but stand With head straight. PENTHEUS In the hollow of thine hand I lay me. Deck me as thou wilt. DIONYSUS Thy zone Is loosened likewise; and the folded gown Not evenly falling to the feet. PENTHEUS 'Tis so, By the right foot. But here methinks, they flow In one straight line to the heel. DIONYSUS (_while tending him_) And if thou prove Their madness true, aye, more than true, what love And thanks hast thou for me? PENTHEUS (_not listening to him_) In my right hand Is it, or thus, that I should bear the wand To be most like to them? DIONYSUS Up let it swing In the right hand, timed with the right foot's spring.... 'Tis well thy heart is changed! PENTHEUS (_more wildly_) What strength is this! Kithaeron's steeps and all that in them is-- How say'st thou?--Could my shoulders lift the whole? DIONYSUS Surely thou canst, and if thou wilt! Thy soul, Being once so sick, now stands as it should stand. PENTHEUS Shall it be bars of iron? Or this bare hand And shoulder to the crags, to wrench them down? DIONYSUS Wouldst wreck the Nymphs' wild temples, and the brown Rocks, where Pan pipes at noonday? PENTHEUS Nay; not I! Force is not well with women. I will lie Hid in the pine-brake. DIONYSUS Even as fits a spy On holy and fearful things, so shalt thou lie! PENTHEUS (_with a laugh_) They lie there now, methinks--the wild birds, caught By love among the leaves, and fluttering not! DIONYSUS It may be. That is what thou goest to see, Aye, and to trap them--so they trap not thee! PENTHEUS Forth through the Thebans' town! I am their king, Aye, their one Man, seeing I dare this thing! DIONYSUS Yea, thou shalt bear their burden, thou alone; Therefore thy trial awaiteth thee!--But on; With me into thine ambush shalt thou come Unscathed; then let another bear thee home! PENTHEUS The Queen, my mother. DIONYSUS Marked of every eye. PENTHEUS For that I go! DIONYSUS Thou shalt be borne on high! PENTHEUS That were like pride! DIONYSUS Thy mother's hands shall share Thy carrying. PENTHEUS Nay; I need not such soft care! DIONYSUS So soft? PENTHEUS Whate'er it be, I have earned it well! [_Exit_ PENTHEUS _towards the Mountain._] DIONYSUS Fell, fell art thou; and to a doom so fell Thou walkest, that thy name from South to North Shall shine, a sign for ever!--Reach thou forth Thine arms, Agâvê, now, and ye dark-browed Cadmeian sisters! Greet this prince so proud To the high ordeal, where save God and me, None walks unscathed!--The rest this day shall see. [_Exit_ DIONYSUS _following_ PENTHEUS.] CHORUS _Some Maidens_ O hounds raging and blind, Up by the mountain road, Sprites of the maddened mind, To the wild Maids of God; Fill with your rage their eyes, Rage at the rage unblest, Watching in woman's guise, The spy upon God's Possessed. _A Bacchanal_ Who shall be first, to mark Eyes in the rock that spy, Eyes in the pine-tree dark-- Is it his mother?--and cry: "Lo, what is this that comes, Haunting, troubling still, Even in our heights, our homes, The wild Maids of the Hill? What flesh bare this child? Never on woman's breast Changeling so evil smiled; Man is he not, but Beast! Loin-shape of the wild, Gorgon-breed of the waste!" _All the Chorus_ Hither, for doom and deed! Hither with lifted sword, Justice, Wrath of the Lord, Come in our visible need! Smite till the throat shall bleed, Smite till the heart shall bleed, Him the tyrannous, lawless, Godless, Echîon's earthborn seed! _Other Maidens_ Tyrannously hath he trod; Marched him, in Law's despite, Against thy Light, O God, Yea, and thy Mother's Light; Girded him, falsely bold, Blinded in craft, to quell And by man's violence hold, Things unconquerable _A Bacchanal_ A strait pitiless mind Is death unto godliness; And to feel in human kind Life, and a pain the less. Knowledge, we are not foes! I seek thee diligently; But the world with a great wind blows, Shining, and not from thee; Blowing to beautiful things, On, amid dark and light, Till Life, through the trammellings Of Laws that are not the Right, Breaks, clean and pure, and sings Glorying to God in the height! _All the Chorus_ Hither for doom and deed! Hither with lifted sword, Justice, Wrath of the Lord, Come in our visible need! Smite till the throat shall bleed, Smite till the heart shall bleed, Him the tyrannous, lawless, Godless, Echion's earthborn seed! LEADER Appear, appear, whatso thy shape or name O Mountain Bull, Snake of the Hundred Heads, Lion of Burning Flame! O God, Beast, Mystery, come! Thy mystic maids Are hunted!--Blast their hunter with thy breath, Cast o'er his head thy snare; And laugh aloud and drag him to his death, Who stalks thy herded madness in its lair! [_Enter hastily a_ MESSENGER _from the Mountain, pale and distraught._] MESSENGER Woe to the house once blest in Hellas! Woe To thee, old King Sidonian, who didst sow The dragon-seed on Ares' bloody lea! Alas, even thy slaves must weep for thee! LEADER News from the mountain?--Speak! How hath it sped? MESSENGER Pentheus, my king, Echîon's son, is dead! LEADER All hail, God of the Voice, Manifest ever more! MESSENGER What say'st thou?--And how strange thy tone, as though In joy at this my master's overthrow! LEADER With fierce joy I rejoice, Child of a savage shore; For the chains of my prison are broken, and the dread where I cowered of yore! MESSENGER And deem'st thou Thebes so beggared, so forlorn Of manhood, as to sit beneath thy scorn? LEADER Thebes hath o'er me no sway! None save Him I obey, Dionysus, Child of the Highest, Him I obey and adore! MESSENGER One can forgive thee!--Yet 'tis no fair thing, Maids, to rejoice in a man's suffering. LEADER Speak of the mountain side! Tell us the doom he died, The sinner smitten to death, even where his sin was sore! MESSENGER We climbed beyond the utmost habitings Of Theban shepherds, passed Asopus' springs, And struck into the land of rock on dim Kithaeron--Pentheus, and, attending him, I, and the Stranger who should guide our way, Then first in a green dell we stopped, and lay, Lips dumb and feet unmoving, warily Watching, to be unseen and yet to see. A narrow glen it was, by crags o'ertowered, Torn through by tossing waters, and there lowered A shadow of great pines over it. And there The Maenad maidens sate; in toil they were, Busily glad. Some with an ivy chain Tricked a worn wand to toss its locks again; Some, wild in joyance, like young steeds set free, Made answering songs of mystic melody. But my poor master saw not the great band Before him. "Stranger," he cried, "where we stand Mine eyes can reach not these false saints of thine. Mount we the bank, or some high-shouldered pine, And I shall see their follies clear!" At that There came a marvel. For the Stranger straight Touched a great pine-tree's high and heavenward crown, And lower, lower, lower, urged it down To the herbless floor. Round like a bending bow, Or slow wheel's rim a joiner forces to. So in those hands that tough and mountain stem Bowed slow--oh, strength not mortal dwelt in them!-- To the very earth. And there he set the King, And slowly, lest it cast him in its spring. Let back the young and straining tree, till high It towered again amid the towering sky; And Pentheus in the branches! Well, I ween, He saw the Maenads then, and well was seen! For scarce was he aloft, when suddenly There was no stranger any more with me, But out of Heaven a Voice--oh, what voice else?-- 'Twas He that called! "Behold, O damosels, I bring ye him who turneth to despite Both me and ye, and darkeneth my great Light. Tis yours to avenge!" So spake he, and there came 'Twixt earth and sky a pillar of high flame. And silence took the air, and no leaf stirred In all the forest dell. Thou hadst not heard In that vast silence any wild things's cry. And up they sprang; but with bewildered eye, Agaze and listening, scarce yet hearing true. Then came the Voice again. And when they knew Their God's clear call, old Cadmus' royal brood, Up, like wild pigeons startled in a wood, On flying feet they came, his mother blind, Agâvê, and her sisters, and behind All the wild crowd, more deeply maddened then, Through the angry rocks and torrent-tossing glen, Until they spied him in the dark pine-tree: Then climbed a crag hard by and furiously Some sought to stone him, some their wands would fling Lance-wise aloft, in cruel targeting. But none could strike. The height o'ertopped their rage, And there he clung, unscathed, as in a cage Caught. And of all their strife no end was found. Then, "Hither," cried Agâvê; "stand we round And grip the stem, my Wild Ones, till we take This climbing cat-o'-the-mount! He shall not make A tale of God's high dances!" Out then shone Arm upon arm, past count, and closed upon The pine, and gripped; and the ground gave, and down It reeled. And that high sitter from the crown Of the green pine-top, with a shrieking cry Fell, as his mind grew clear, and there hard by Was horror visible. 'Twas his mother stood O'er him, first priestess of those rites of blood. He tore the coif, and from his head away Flung it, that she might know him, and not slay To her own misery. He touched the wild Cheek, crying: "Mother, it is I, thy child, Thy Pentheus, born thee in Echion's hall! Have mercy, Mother! Let it not befall Through sin of mine, that thou shouldst slay thy son!" But she, with lips a-foam and eyes that run Like leaping fire, with thoughts that ne'er should be On earth, possessed by Bacchios utterly, Stays not nor hears. Round his left arm she put Both hands, set hard against his side her foot, Drew ... and the shoulder severed!--not by might Of arm, but easily, as the God made light Her hand's essay. And at the other side Was Ino rending; and the torn flesh cried, And on Autonoë pressed, and all the crowd Of ravening arms. 'Yea, all the air was loud With groans that faded into sobbing breath, Dim shrieks, and joy, and triumph-cries of death. And here was borne a severed arm, and there A hunter's booted foot; white bones lay bare With rending; and swift hands ensanguinèd Tossed as in sport the flesh of Pentheus dead. His body lies afar. The precipice Hath part, and parts in many an interstice Lurk of the tangled woodland--no light quest To find. And, ah, the head! Of all the rest, His mother hath it, pierced upon a wand, As one might pierce a lion's, and through the land, Leaving her sisters in their dancing place, Bears it on high! Yea, to these walls her face Was set, exulting in her deed of blood, Calling upon her Bromios, her God, Her Comrade, Fellow-Render of the Prey, Her All-Victorious, to whom this day She bears in triumph ... her own broken heart. For me, after that sight, I will depart Before Agave comes.--Oh, to fulfil God's laws, and have no thought beyond His will, Is man's best treasure. Aye, and wisdom true, Methinks, for things of dust to cleave unto! [_The_ MESSENGER _departs into the Castle_.] CHORUS _Some Maidens_ Weave ye the dance, and call Praise to God! Bless ye the Tyrant's fall! Down is trod Pentheus, the Dragon's Seed! Wore he the woman's weed? Clasped he his death indeed, Clasped the rod? _A Bacchanal_ Yea, the wild ivy lapt him, and the doomed Wild Bull of Sacrifice before him loomed! _Others_ Ye who did Bromios scorn, Praise Him the more, Bacchanals, Cadmus-born; Praise with sore Agony, yea, with tears! Great are the gifts he bears! Hands that a mother rears Red with gore! LEADER But stay, Agâvê cometh! And her eyes Make fire around her, reeling! Ho, the prize Cometh! All hail, O Rout of Dionyse! [_Enter from the Mountain_ AGAVE, _mad, and to all seeming wondrously happy, bearing the head of_ PENTHEUS _in her hand. The_ CHORUS MAIDENS _stand horror-struck at the sight; the_ LEADER, _also horror-struck, strives to accept it and rejoice in it as the God's deed_.] AGAVE Ye from the lands of Morn! LEADER Call me not; I give praise! AGAVE Lo, from the trunk new-shorn Hither a Mountain Thorn Bear we! O Asia-born Bacchanals, bless this chase! LEADER I see. Yea; I see. Have I not welcomed thee? AGAVE (_very calmly and peacefully_) He was young in the wildwood Without nets I caught him! Nay; look without fear on The Lion; I have ta'en him! LEADER Where in the wildwood? Whence have ye brought him? AGAVE Kithaeron. . . . LEADER Kithaeron? AGAVE The Mountain hath slain him! LEADER Who first came nigh him? AGAVE I, I, 'tis confessèd! And they named me there by him Agave the Blessèd! LEADER Who was next in the band on him? AGAVE The daughters.... LEADER The daughters? AGAVE Of Cadmus laid hand on him. But the swift hand that slaughters Is mine; mine is the praise! Bless ye this day of days! [_The_ LEADER _tries to speak, but is not able;_ AGAVE _begins gently stroking the head_.] AGAVE Gather ye now to the feast! LEADER Feast!--O miserable! AGAVE See, it falls to his breast, Curling and gently tressed, The hair of the Wild Bull's crest-- The young steer of the fell! LEADER Most like a beast of the wild That head, those locks defiled. AGAVE (_lifting up the head, more excitedly_) He wakened his Mad Ones, A Chase-God, a wise God! He sprang them to seize this! He preys where his band preys. LEADER (_brooding, with horror_) In the trail of thy Mad Ones Thou tearest thy prize, God! AGAVE Dost praise it? LEADER I praise this? AGAVE Ah, soon shall the land praise! LEADER And Pentheus, O Mother, Thy child? AGAVE He shall cry on My name as none other, Bless the spoils of the Lion! LEADER Aye, strange is thy treasure! AGAVE And strange was the taking! LEADER Thou art glad? AGAVE Beyond measure; Yea, glad in the breaking Of dawn upon all this land, By the prize, the prize of my hand! LEADER Show them to all the land, unhappy one, The trophy of this deed that thou hast done! AGAVE Ho, all ye men that round the citadel And shining towers of ancient Thêbê dwell, Come! Look upon this prize, this lion's spoil, That we have taken--yea, with our own toil, We, Cadmus' daughters! Not with leathern-set Thessalian javelins, not with hunter's net, Only white arms and swift hands' bladed fall Why make ye much ado, and boast withal Your armourers' engines? See, these palms were bare That caught the angry beast, and held, and tare The limbs of him! ... Father! ... Go, bring to me My father! ... Aye, and Pentheus, where is he, My son? He shall set up a ladder-stair Against this house, and in the triglyphs there Nail me this lion's head, that gloriously I bring ye, having slain him--I, even I! [_She goes through the crowd towards the Castle, showing the head and looking for a place to hang it. Enter from the Mountain_ CADMUS, _with attendants, bearing the body of_ PENTHEUS _on a bier_.] CADMUS On, with your awful burden. Follow me, Thralls, to his house, whose body grievously With many a weary search at last in dim Kithaeron's glens I found, torn limb from limb, And through the intervening forest weed Scattered.--Men told me of my daughters' deed, When I was just returned within these walls, With grey Teiresias, from the Bacchanals. And back I hied me to the hills again To seek my murdered son. There saw I plain Actaeon's mother, ranging where he died, Autonoë; and Ino by her side, Wandering ghastly in the pine-copses. Agâvê was not there. The rumour is She cometh fleet-foot hither.--Ah! 'Tis true; A sight I scarce can bend mine eyes unto. AGAVE (_turning from the Palace and seeing him_) My father, a great boast is thine this hour. Thou hast begotten daughters, high in power And valiant above all mankind--yea, all Valiant, though none like me! I have let fall The shuttle by the loom, and raised my hand For higher things, to slay from out thy land Wild beasts! See, in mine arms I bear the prize, That nailed above these portals it may rise To show what things thy daughters did! Do thou Take it, and call a feast. Proud art thou now And highly favoured in our valiancy! CADMUS O depth of grief, how can I fathom thee Or look upon thee!--Poor, poor bloodstained hand! Poor sisters!--A fair sacrifice to stand Before God's altars, daughter; yea, and call Me and my citizens to feast withal! Nay, let me weep--for thine affliction most, Then for mine own. All, all of us are lost, Not wrongfully, yet is it hard, from one Who might have loved--our Bromios, our own! AGAVE How crabbèd and how scowling in the eyes Is man's old age!--Would that my son likewise Were happy of his hunting, in my way When with his warrior bands he will essay The wild beast!--Nay, his valiance is to fight With God's will! Father, thou shouldst set him right. Will no one bring him thither, that mine eyes May look on his, and show him this my prize! CADMUS Alas, if ever ye can know again The truth of what ye did, what pain of pain That truth shall bring! Or were it best to wait Darkened for evermore, and deem your state Not misery, though ye know no happiness? AGAVE What seest thou here to chide, or not to bless? CADMUS (_after hesitation, resolving himself_) Raise me thine eyes to yon blue dome of air! AGAVE 'Tis done. What dost thou bid me seek for there? CADMUS Is it the same, or changèd in thy sight? AGAVE More shining than before, more heavenly bright! CADMUS And that wild tremour, is it with thee still? AGAVE (_troubled_) I know not what thou sayest; but my will Clears, and some change cometh, I know not how. CADMUS Canst hearken then, being changed, and answer, now! AGAVE I have forgotten something; else I could. CADMUS What husband led thee of old from mine abode? AGAVE Echîon, whom men named the Child of Earth. CADMUS And what child in Echîon's house had birth? AGAVE Pentheus, of my love and his father's bred. CADMUS Thou bearest in thine arms an head--what head? AGAVE (_beginning to tremble, and not looking at what she carries_) A lion's--so they all said in the chase. CADMUS Turn to it now--'tis no long toil--and gaze. AGAVE Ah! But what is it? What am I carrying here? CADMUS Look once upon it full, till all be clear! AGAVE I see... most deadly pain! Oh, woe is me! CADMUS Wears it the likeness of a lion to thee? AGAVE No; 'tis the head--O God!--of Pentheus, this! CADMUS Blood-drenched ere thou wouldst know him! Aye, 'tis his. AGAVE Who slew him?--How came I to hold this thing? CADMUS O cruel Truth, is this thine home-coming? AGAVE Answer! My heart is hanging on thy breath! CADMUS 'Twas thou.--Thou and thy sisters wrought his death. AGAVE In what place was it? His own house, or where? CADMUS Where the dogs tore Actaeon, even there. AGAVE Why went he to Kithaeron? What sought he? CADMUS To mock the God and thine own ecstasy. AGAVE But how should we be on the hills this day? CADMUS Being mad! A spirit drove all the land that way. AGAVE 'Tis Dionyse hath done it! Now I see. CADMUS (_earnestly_) Ye wronged Him! Ye denied his deity! AGAVE (_turning from him_) Show me the body of the son I love! CADMUS (_leading her to the bier_) 'Tis here, my child. Hard was the quest thereof. AGAVE Laid in due state? [_As there is no answer, she lifts the veil of the bier, and sees._] Oh, if I wrought a sin, 'Twas mine! What portion had my child therein! CADMUS He made him like to you, adoring not The God; who therefore to one bane hath brought You and this body, wrecking all our line, And me. Aye, no man-child was ever mine; And now this first-fruit of the flesh of thee, Sad woman, foully here and frightfully Lies murdered! Whom the house looked up unto, [_Kneeling by the body._] O Child, my daughter's child! who heldest true My castle walls; and to the folk a name Of fear thou wast; and no man sought to shame My grey beard, when they knew that thou wast there, Else had they swift reward!--And now I fare Forth in dishonour, outcast, I, the great Cadmus, who sowed the seed-rows of this state Of Thebes, and reaped the harvest wonderful. O my belovèd, though thy heart is dull In death, O still belovèd, and alway Beloved! Never more, then, shalt thou lay Thine hand to this white beard, and speak to me Thy "Mother's Father"; ask "Who wrongeth thee? Who stints thine honour, or with malice stirs Thine heart? Speak, and I smite thine injurers!" But now--woe, woe, to me and thee also, Woe to thy mother and her sisters, woe Alway! Oh, whoso walketh not in dread Of Gods, let him but look on this man dead! LEADER Lo, I weep with thee. 'Twas but due reward God sent on Pentheus; but for thee ... 'Tis hard. AGAVE My father, thou canst see the change in me, * * * * * * * * * * [_A page or more has here been torn out of the MS. from which all our copies of "The Bacchae" are derived. It evidently contained a speech of Agâvê (followed presumably by some words of the Chorus), and an appearance of_ DIONYSUS _upon a cloud. He must have pronounced judgment upon the Thebans in general, and especially upon the daughters of_ CADMUS, _have justified his own action, and declared his determination to establish his godhead. Where the MS begins again, we find him addressing_ CADMUS.] * * * * * DIONYSUS * * * * * * * * * * And tell of Time, what gifts for thee he bears, What griefs and wonders in the winding years. For thou must change and be a Serpent Thing Strange, and beside thee she whom thou didst bring Of old to be thy bride from Heaven afar, Harmonia, daughter of the Lord of War. Yea, and a chariot of kine--so spake The word of Zeus--thee and thy Queen shall take Through many lands, Lord of a wild array Of orient spears. And many towns shall they Destroy beneath thee, that vast horde, until They touch Apollo's dwelling, and fulfil Their doom, back driven on stormy ways and steep. Thee only and thy spouse shall Ares keep, And save alive to the Islands of the Blest. Thus speaketh Dionysus, Son confessed Of no man but of Zeus!--Ah, had ye seen Truth in the hour ye would not, all had been Well with ye, and the Child of God your friend! AGAVE Dionysus, we beseech thee! We have sinned! DIONYSUS Too late! When there was time, ye knew me not! AGAVE We have confessed. Yet is thine hand too hot. DIONYSUS Ye mocked me, being God; this your wage. AGAVE Should God be like a proud man in his rage? DIONYSUS 'Tis as my sire, Zeus, willed it long ago. AGAVE (_turning from him almost with disdain_) Old man, the word is spoken; we must go. DIONYSUS And seeing ye must, what is it that ye wait? CADMUS Child, we are come into a deadly strait, All; thou, poor sufferer, and thy sisters twain, And my sad self. Far off to barbarous men, A grey-haired wanderer, I must take my road. And then the oracle, the doom of God, That I must lead a raging horde far-flown To prey on Hellas; lead my spouse, mine own Harmonia. Ares' child, discorporate And haunting forms, dragon and dragon-mate, Against the tombs and altar-stones of Greece, Lance upon lance behind us; and not cease From toils, like other men, nor dream, nor past The foam of Acheron find my peace at last. AGAVE Father! And I must wander far from thee! CADMUS O Child, why wilt thou reach thine arms to me, As yearns the milk-white swan, when old swans die? AGAVE Where shall I turn me else? No home have I. CADMUS I know not; I can help thee not. AGAVE Farewell, O home, O ancient tower! Lo, I am outcast from my bower, And leave ye for a worser lot. CADMUS Go forth, go forth to misery, The way Actaeon's father went! AGAVE Father, for thee my tears are spent. CADMUS Nay, Child, 'tis I must weep for thee; For thee and for thy sisters twain! AGAVE On all this house, in bitter wise, Our Lord and Master, Dionyse, Hath poured the utter dregs of pain! DIONYSUS In bitter wise, for bitter was the shame Ye did me, when Thebes honoured not my name. AGAVE Then lead me where my sisters be; Together let our tears be shed, Our ways be wandered; where no red Kithaeron waits to gaze on me; Nor I gaze back; no thyrsus stem, Nor song, nor memory in the air. Oh, other Bacchanals be there, Not I, not I, to dream of them! [AGAVE _with her group of attendants goes out on the side away from the Mountain._ DIONYSUS _rises upon the Cloud and disappears._] CHORUS There may be many shapes of mystery, And many things God makes to be, Past hope or fear. And the end men looked for cometh not, And a path is there where no man thought. So hath it fallen here. [_Exeunt_.] # Project Gutenberg #10523 THE ALCESTIS OF EURIPIDES TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH RHYMING VERSE WITH EXPLANATORY NOTES BY GILBERT MURRAY, LL D, D LITT, FBA REGIUS PROFESSOR OF GREEK IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD 1915 INTRODUCTION The _Alcestis_ would hardly confirm its author's right to be acclaimed "the most tragic of the poets." It is doubtful whether one can call it a tragedy at all. Yet it remains one of the most characteristic and delightful of Euripidean dramas, as well as, by modern standards, the most easily actable. And I notice that many judges who display nothing but a fierce satisfaction in sending other plays of that author to the block or the treadmill, show a certain human weakness in sentencing the gentle daughter of Pelias. The play has been interpreted in many different ways. There is the old unsophisticated view, well set forth in Paley's preface of 1872. He regards the _Alcestis_ simply as a triumph of pathos, especially of "that peculiar sort of pathos which comes most home to us, with our views and partialities for domestic life.... As for the characters, that of Alcestis must be acknowledged to be pre-eminently beautiful. One could almost imagine that Euripides had not yet conceived that bad opinion of the sex which so many of the subsequent dramas exhibit.... But the rest are hardly well-drawn, or, at least, pleasingly portrayed." "The poet might perhaps, had he pleased, have exhibited Admetus in a more amiable point of view." This criticism is not very trenchant, but its weakness is due, I think, more to timidity of statement than to lack of perception. Paley does see that a character may be "well-drawn" without necessarily being "pleasing"; and even that he may be eminently pleasing as a part of the play while very displeasing in himself. He sees that Euripides may have had his own reasons for not making Admetus an ideal husband. It seems odd that such points should need mentioning; but Greek drama has always suffered from a school of critics who approach a play with a greater equipment of aesthetic theory than of dramatic perception. This is the characteristic defect of classicism. One mark of the school is to demand from dramatists heroes and heroines which shall satisfy its own ideals; and, though there was in the New Comedy a mask known to Pollux as "The Entirely-good Young Man" ([Greek: panchraestos neaniskos]), such a character is fortunately unknown to classical Greek drama. The influence of this "classicist" tradition has led to a timid and unsatisfying treatment of the _Alcestis_, in which many of the most striking and unconventional features of the whole composition were either ignored or smoothed away. As a natural result, various lively-minded readers proceeded to overemphasize these particular features, and were carried into eccentricity or paradox. Alfred Schöne, for instance, fixing his attention on just those points which the conventional critic passed over, decides simply that the _Alcestis_ is a parody, and finds it very funny. (_Die Alkestis von Euripides_, Kiel, 1895.) I will not dwell on other criticisms of this type. There are those who have taken the play for a criticism of contemporary politics or the current law of inheritance. Above all there is the late Dr. Verrall's famous essay in _Euripides the Rationalist_, explaining it as a psychological criticism of a supposed Delphic miracle, and arguing that Alcestis in the play does not rise from the dead at all. She had never really died; she only had a sort of nervous catalepsy induced by all the "suggestion" of death by which she was surrounded. Now Dr. Verrall's work, as always, stands apart. Even if wrong, it has its own excellence, its special insight and its extraordinary awakening power. But in general the effect of reading many criticisms on the _Alcestis_ is to make a scholar realize that, for all the seeming simplicity of the play, competent Grecians have been strangely bewildered by it, and that after all there is no great reason to suppose that he himself is more sensible than his neighbours. This is depressing. None the less I cannot really believe that, if we make patient use of our available knowledge, the _Alcestis_ presents any startling enigma. In the first place, it has long been known from the remnants of the ancient Didascalia, or official notice of production, that the _Alcestis_ was produced as the fourth play of a series; that is, it took the place of a Satyr-play. It is what we may call Pro-satyric. (See the present writer's introduction to the _Rhesus_.) And we should note for what it is worth the observation in the ancient Greek argument: "The play is somewhat satyr-like ([Greek: saturiphkoteron]). It ends in rejoicing and gladness against the tragic convention." Now we are of late years beginning to understand much better what a Satyr-play was. Satyrs have, of course, nothing to do with satire, either etymologically or otherwise. Satyrs are the attendant daemons who form the Kômos, or revel rout, of Dionysus. They are represented in divers fantastic forms, the human or divine being mixed with that of some animal, especially the horse or wild goat. Like Dionysus himself, they are connected in ancient religion with the Renewal of the Earth in spring and the resurrection of the dead, a point which students of the _Alcestis_ may well remember. But in general they represent mere joyous creatures of nature, unthwarted by law and unchecked by self-control. Two notes are especially struck by them: the passions and the absurdity of half-drunken revellers, and the joy and mystery of the wild things in the forest. The rule was that after three tragedies proper there came a play, still in tragic diction, with a traditional saga plot and heroic characters, in which the Chorus was formed by these Satyrs. There was a deliberate clash, an effect of burlesque; but of course the clash must not be too brutal. Certain characters of the heroic saga are, so to speak, at home with Satyrs and others are not. To take our extant specimens of Satyr-plays, for instance: in the _Cyclops_ we have Odysseus, the heroic trickster; in the fragmentary _Ichneutae_ of Sophocles we have the Nymph Cyllene, hiding the baby Hermes from the chorus by the most barefaced and pleasant lying; later no doubt there was an entrance of the infant thief himself. Autolycus, Sisyphus, Thersites are all Satyr-play heroes and congenial to the Satyr atmosphere; but the most congenial of all, the one hero who existed always in an atmosphere of Satyrs and the Kômos until Euripides made him the central figure of a tragedy, was Heracles. [Footnote: The character of Heracles in connexion with the Kômos, already indicated by Wilamowitz and Dieterich (_Herakles_, pp. 98, ff.; _Pulcinella_, pp. 63, ff.), has been illuminatingly developed in an unpublished monograph by Mr. J.A.K. Thomson, of Aberdeen.] The complete Satyr-play had a hero of this type and a Chorus of Satyrs. But the complete type was refined away during the fifth century; and one stage in the process produced a play with a normal chorus but with one figure of the Satyric or "revelling" type. One might almost say the "comic" type if, for the moment, we may remember that that word is directly derived from 'Kômos.' The _Alcestis_ is a very clear instance of this Pro-satyric class of play. It has the regular tragic diction, marked here and there (393, 756, 780, etc.) by slight extravagances and forms of words which are sometimes epic and sometimes over-colloquial; it has a regular saga plot, which had already been treated by the old poet Phrynichus in his _Alcestis_, a play which is now lost but seems to have been Satyric; and it has one character straight from the Satyr world, the heroic reveller, Heracles. It is all in keeping that he should arrive tired, should feast and drink and sing; should be suddenly sobered and should go forth to battle with Death. It is also in keeping that the contest should have a half-grotesque and half-ghastly touch, the grapple amid the graves and the cracking ribs. * * * * * So much for the traditional form. As for the subject, Euripides received it from Phrynichus, and doubtless from other sources. We cannot be sure of the exact form of the story in Phrynichus. But apparently it told how Admetus, King of Pherae in Thessaly, received from Apollo a special privilege which the God had obtained, in true Satyric style, by making the Three Fates drunk and cajoling them. This was that, when his appointed time for death came, he might escape if he could find some volunteer to die for him. His father and mother, from whom the service might have been expected, refused to perform it. His wife, Alcestis, though no blood relation, handsomely undertook it and died. But it so happened that Admetus had entertained in his house the demi-god, Heracles; and when Heracles heard what had happened, he went out and wrestled with Death, conquered him, and brought Alcestis home. Given this form and this story, the next question is: What did Euripides make of them? The general answer is clear: he has applied his usual method. He accepts the story as given in the tradition, and then represents it in his own way. When the tradition in question is really heroic, we know what his way is. He preserves, and even emphasizes, the stateliness and formality of the Attic stage conventions; but, in the meantime, he has subjected the story and its characters to a keener study and a more sensitive psychological judgment than the simple things were originally meant to bear. So that many characters which passed as heroic, or at least presentable, in the kindly remoteness of legend, reveal some strange weakness when brought suddenly into the light. When the tradition is Satyric, as here, the same process produces almost an opposite effect. It is somewhat as though the main plot of a gross and jolly farce were pondered over and made more true to human character till it emerged as a refined and rather pathetic comedy. The making drunk of the Three Grey Sisters disappears; one can only just see the trace of its having once been present. The revelling of Heracles is touched in with the lightest of hands; it is little more than symbolic. And all the figures in the story, instead of being left broadly comic or having their psychology neglected, are treated delicately, sympathetically, with just that faint touch of satire, or at least of amusement, which is almost inseparable from a close interest in character. What was Admetus really like, this gallant prince who had won the affection of such great guests as Apollo and Heracles, and yet went round asking other people to die for him; who, in particular, accepted his wife's monstrous sacrifice with satisfaction and gratitude? The play portrays him well. Generous, innocent, artistic, affectionate, eloquent, impulsive, a good deal spoilt, unconsciously insincere, and no doubt fundamentally selfish, he hates the thought of dying and he hates losing his wife almost as much. Why need she die? Why could it not have been some one less important to him? He feels with emotion what a beautiful act it would have been for his old father. "My boy, you have a long and happy life before you, and for me the sands are well-nigh run out. Do not seek to dissuade me. I will die for you." Admetus could compose the speech for him. A touching scene, a noble farewell, and all the dreadful trouble solved--so conveniently solved! And the miserable self-blinded old man could not see it! Euripides seems to have taken positive pleasure in Admetus, much as Meredith did in his famous Egoist; but Euripides all through is kinder to his victim than Meredith is. True, Admetus is put to obvious shame, publicly and helplessly. The Chorus make discreet comments upon him. The Handmaid is outspoken about him. One feels that Alcestis herself, for all her tender kindness, has seen through him. Finally, to make things quite clear, his old father fights him openly, tells him home-truth upon home-truth, tears away all his protective screens, and leaves him with his self-respect in tatters. It is a fearful ordeal for Admetus, and, after his first fury, he takes it well. He comes back from his wife's burial a changed man. He says not much, but enough. "I have done wrong. I have only now learnt my lesson. I imagined I could save my happy life by forfeiting my honour; and the result is that I have lost both." I think that a careful reading of the play will show an almost continuous process of self-discovery and self-judgment in the mind of Admetus. He was a man who blinded himself with words and beautiful sentiments; but he was not thick-skinned or thick-witted. He was not a brute or a cynic. And I think he did learn his lesson ... not completely and for ever, but as well as most of us learn such lessons. The beauty of Alcestis is quite untouched by the dramatist's keener analysis. The strong light only increases its effect. Yet she is not by any means a mere blameless ideal heroine; and the character which Euripides gives her makes an admirable foil to that of Admetus. Where he is passionate and romantic, she is simple and homely. While he is still refusing to admit the facts and beseeching her not to "desert" him, she in a gentle but businesslike way makes him promise to take care of the children and, above all things, not to marry again. She could not possibly trust Admetus's choice. She is sure that the step-mother would be unkind to the children. She might be a horror and beat them (l. 307). And when Admetus has made a thrilling answer about eternal sorrow, and the silencing of lyre and lute, and the statue who shall be his only bride, Alcestis earnestly calls the attention of witnesses to the fact that he has sworn not to marry again. She is not an artist like Admetus. There is poetry in her, because poetry comes unconsciously out of deep feeling, but there is no artistic eloquence. Her love, too, is quite different from his. To him, his love for his wife and children is a beautiful thing, a subject to speak and sing about as well as an emotion to feel. But her love is hardly conscious. She does not talk about it at all. She is merely wrapped up in the welfare of certain people, first her husband and then he children. To a modern romantic reader her insistence that her husband shall not marry again seems hardly delicate. But she does not think about romance or delicacy. To her any neglect to ensure due protection for the children would be as unnatural as to refuse to die for her husband. Indeed, Professor J.L. Myres has suggested that care for the children's future is the guiding motive of her whole conduct. There was first the danger of their being left fatherless, a dire calamity in the heroic age. She could meet that danger by dying herself. Then followed the danger of a stepmother. She meets that by making Admetus swear never to marry. In the long run, I fancy, the effect of gracious loveliness which Alcestis certainly makes is not so much due to any words of her own as to what the Handmaid and the Serving Man say about her. In the final scene she is silent; necessarily and rightly silent, for all tradition knows that those new-risen from the dead must not speak. It will need a long _rite de passage_ before she can freely commune with this world again. It is a strange and daring scene between the three of them; the humbled and broken-hearted husband; the triumphant Heracles, kindly and wise, yet still touched by the mocking and blustrous atmosphere from which he sprang; and the silent woman who has seen the other side of the grave. It was always her way to know things but not to speak of them. The other characters fall easily into their niches. We have only to remember the old Satyric tradition and to look at them in the light of their historical development. Heracles indeed, half-way on his road from the roaring reveller of the Satyr-play to the suffering and erring deliverer of tragedy, is a little foreign to our notions, but quite intelligible and strangely attractive. The same historical method seems to me to solve most of the difficulties which have been felt about Admetus's hospitality. Heracles arrives at the castle just at the moment when Alcestis is lying dead in her room; Admetus conceals the death from him and insists on his coming in and enjoying himself. What are we to think of this behaviour? Is it magnificent hospitality, or is it gross want of tact? The answer, I think, is indicated above. In the uncritical and boisterous atmosphere of the Satyr-play it was natural hospitality, not especially laudable or surprising. From the analogy of similar stories I suspect that Admetus originally did not know his guest, and received not so much the reward of exceptional virtue as the blessing naturally due to those who entertain angels unawares. If we insist on asking whether Euripides himself, in real life or in a play of his own free invention, would have considered Admetus's conduct to Heracles entirely praiseworthy, the answer will certainly be No, but it will have little bearing on the play. In the _Alcestis_, as it stands, the famous act of hospitality is a datum of the story. Its claims are admitted on the strength of the tradition. It was the act for which Admetus was specially and marvellously rewarded; therefore, obviously, it was an act of exceptional merit and piety. Yet the admission is made with a smile, and more than one suggestion is allowed to float across the scene that in real life such conduct would be hardly wise. Heracles, who rose to tragic rank from a very homely cycle of myth, was apt to bring other homely characters with him. He was a great killer not only of malefactors but of "kêres" or bogeys, such as "Old Age" and "Ague" and the sort of "Death" that we find in this play. Thanatos is not a god, not at all a King of Terrors. One may compare him with the dancing skeleton who is called Death in mediaeval writings. When such a figure appears on the tragic stage one asks at once what relation he bears to Hades, the great Olympian king of the unseen. The answer is obvious. Thanatos is the servant of Hades, a "priest" or sacrificer, who is sent to fetch the appointed victims. The other characters speak for themselves. Certainly Pheres can be trusted to do so, though we must remember that we see him at an unfortunate moment. The aged monarch is not at his best, except perhaps in mere fighting power. I doubt if he was really as cynical as he here professes to be. * * * * * In the above criticisms I feel that I may have done what critics are so apt to do. I have dwelt on questions of intellectual interest and perhaps thereby diverted attention from that quality in the play which is the most important as well as by far the hardest to convey; I mean the sheer beauty and delightfulness of the writing. It is the earliest dated play of Euripides which has come down to us. True, he was over forty when he produced it, but it is noticeably different from the works of his old age. The numbers are smoother, the thought less deeply scarred, the language more charming and less passionate. If it be true that poetry is bred out of joy and sorrow, one feels as if more enjoyment and less suffering had gone to the making of the _Alcestis_ than to that of the later plays. ALCESTIS CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY ADMÊTUS, _King of Pherae in Thessaly_. ALCESTIS, _daughter of Pelias, his wife_. PHERÊS, _his father, formerly King but now in retirement_. TWO CHILDREN, _his son and daughter_. A MANSERVANT _in his house_. A HANDMAID. The Hero HERACLES. The God APOLLO. THANÁTOS _or_ DEATH. CHORUS, _consisting of Elders of Pherae_. "_The play was first performed when Glaukînos was Archon, in the 2nd year of the 85th Olympiad_ (438 B.C.). _Sophocles was first, Euripides second with the Cretan Women, Alcmaeon in Psophis, Telephus and Alcestis.... The play is somewhat Satyric in character._" ALCESTIS _The scene represents the ancient Castle of_ ADMETUS _near Pherae in Thessaly. It is the dusk before dawn_; APOLLO, _radiant in the darkness, looks at the Castle._ APOLLO. Admetus' House! 'Twas here I bowed my head Of old, and chafed not at the bondman's bread, Though born in heaven. Aye, Zeus to death had hurled My son, Asclepios, Healer of the World, Piercing with fire his heart; and in mine ire I slew his Cyclop churls, who forged the fire. Whereat Zeus cast me forth to bear the yoke Of service to a mortal. To this folk I came, and watched a stranger's herd for pay, And all his house I have prospered to this day. For innocent was the Lord I chanced upon And clean as mine own heart, King Pheres' son, Admetus. Him I rescued from the grave, Beguiling the Grey Sisters till they gave A great oath that Admetus should go free, Would he but pay to Them Below in fee Another living soul. Long did he prove All that were his, and all that owed him love, But never a soul he found would yield up life And leave the sunlight for him, save his wife: Who, even now, down the long galleries Is borne, death-wounded; for this day it is She needs must pass out of the light and die. And, seeing the stain of death must not come nigh My radiance, I must leave this house I love. But ha! The Headsman of the Pit, above Earth's floor, to ravish her! Aye, long and late He hath watched, and cometh at the fall of fate. _Enter from the other side_ THANATOS; _a crouching black-haired and winged figure, carrying a drawn sword. He starts in revulsion on seeing_ APOLLO. THANATOS. Aha! Why here? What mak'st thou at the gate, Thou Thing of Light? Wilt overtread The eternal judgment, and abate And spoil the portions of the dead? 'Tis not enough for thee to have blocked In other days Admetus' doom With craft of magic wine, which mocked The three grey Sisters of the Tomb; But now once more I see thee stand at watch, and shake That arrow-armèd hand to make This woman thine, who swore, who swore, To die now for her husband's sake. APOLLO. Fear not. I bring fair words and seek but what is just. THANATOS (_sneering_) And if words help thee not, an arrow must? APOLLO. 'Tis ever my delight to bear this bow. THANATOS. And aid this house unjustly? Aye, 'tis so. APOLLO. I love this man, and grieve for his dismay. THANATOS. And now wilt rob me of my second prey! APOLLO. I never robbed thee, neither then nor now. THANATOS. Why is Admetus here then, not below? APOLLO. He gave for ransom his own wife, for whom ... THANATOS (_interrupting_). I am come; and straight will bear her to the tomb. APOLLO. Go, take her.--I can never move thine heart. THANATOS (_mocking_). To slay the doomed?--Nay; I will do my part. APOLLO. No. To keep death for them that linger late. THANATOS (_still mocking_). 'Twould please thee, so?... I owe thee homage great. APOLLO. Ah, then she may yet ... she may yet grow old? THANATOS (_with a laugh_). No!... I too have my rights, and them I hold. APOLLO. 'Tis but one life thou gainest either-wise. THANATOS. When young souls die, the richer is my prize. APOLLO. Old, with great riches they will bury her. THANATOS. Fie on thee, fie! Thou rich-man's lawgiver! APOLLO. How? Is there wit in Death, who seemed so blind? THANATOS. The rich would buy long life for all their kind. APOLLO. Thou will not grant me, then, this boon? 'Tis so? THANATOS. Thou knowest me, what I am: I tell thee, no! APOLLO. I know gods sicken at thee and men pine. THANATOS. Begone! Too many things not meant for thine Thy greed hath conquered; but not all, not all! APOLLO. I swear, for all thy bitter pride, a fall Awaits thee. One even now comes conquering Towards this house, sent by a southland king To fetch him four wild coursers, of the race Which rend men's bodies in the winds of Thrace. This house shall give him welcome good, and he Shall wrest this woman from thy worms and thee. So thou shalt give me all, and thereby win But hatred, not the grace that might have been. [_Exit_ APOLLO.] THANATOS. Talk on, talk on! Thy threats shall win no bride From me.--This woman, whatsoe'er betide, Shall lie in Hades' house. Even at the word I go to lay upon her hair my sword. For all whose head this grey sword visiteth To death are hallowed and the Lords of death. [THANATOS _goes into the house. Presently, as the day grows lighter, the_ CHORUS _enters: it consists of Citizens of Pherae, who speak severally._] CHORUS. LEADER. Quiet, quiet, above, beneath! SECOND ELDER. The house of Admetus holds its breath. THIRD ELDER. And never a King's friend near, To tell us either of tears to shed For Pelias' daughter, crowned and dead; Or joy, that her eyes are clear. Bravest, truest of wives is she That I have seen or the world shall see. DIVERS CITIZENS, _conversing_. (The dash -- indicates a new speaker.) --Hear ye no sob, or noise of hands Beating the breast? No mourners' cries For one they cannot save? --Nothing: and at the door there stands No handmaid.--Help, O Paian; rise, O star beyond the wave! --Dead, and this quiet? No, it cannot be. --Dead, dead!--Not gone to burial secretly! --Why? I still fear: what makes your speech so brave? --Admetus cast that dear wife to the grave Alone, with none to see? --I see no bowl of clear spring water. It ever stands before the dread Door where a dead man rests. --No lock of shorn hair! Every daughter Of woman shears it for the dead. No sound of bruisèd breasts! --Yet 'tis this very day ...--This very day? --The Queen should pass and lie beneath the clay. --It hurts my life, my heart!--All honest hearts Must sorrow for a brightness that departs, A good life worn away. LEADER. To wander o'er leagues of land, To search over wastes of sea, Where the Prophets of Lycia stand, Or where Ammon's daughters three Make runes in the rainless sand, For magic to make her free-- Ah, vain! for the end is here; Sudden it comes and sheer. What lamb on the altar-strand Stricken shall comfort me? SECOND ELDER. Only, only one, I know: Apollo's son was he, Who healed men long ago. Were he but on earth to see, She would rise from the dark below And the gates of eternity. For men whom the Gods had slain He pitied and raised again; Till God's fire laid him low, And now, what help have we? OTHERS. All's done that can be. Every vow Full paid; and every altar's brow Full crowned with spice of sacrifice. No help remains nor respite now. _Enter from the Castle a_ HANDMAID, _almost in tears._ LEADER. But see, a handmaid cometh, and the tear Wet on her cheek! What tiding shall we hear?... Thy grief is natural, daughter, if some ill Hath fallen to-day. Say, is she living still Or dead, your mistress? Speak, if speak you may. MAID. Alive. No, dead.... Oh, read it either way. LEADER. Nay, daughter, can the same soul live and die? MAID. Her life is broken; death is in her eye. LEADER. Poor King, to think what she was, and what thou! MAID. He never knew her worth.... He will know it now. LEADER. There is no hope, methinks, to save her still? MAID. The hour is come, and breaks all human will. LEADER. She hath such tendance as the dying crave? MAID. For sure: and rich robes ready for her grave. LEADER. 'Fore God, she dies high-hearted, aye, and far In honour raised above all wives that are! MAID. Far above all! How other? What must she, Who seeketh to surpass this woman, be? Or how could any wife more shining make Her lord's love, than by dying for his sake? But thus much all the city knows. 'Tis here, In her own rooms, the tale will touch thine ear With strangeness. When she knew the day was come, She rose and washed her body, white as foam, With running water; then the cedarn press She opened, and took forth her funeral dress And rich adornment. So she stood arrayed Before the Hearth-Fire of her home, and prayed: "Mother, since I must vanish from the day, This last, last time I kneel to thee and pray; Be mother to my two children! Find some dear Helpmate for him, some gentle lord for her. And let not them, like me, before their hour Die; let them live in happiness, in our Old home, till life be full and age content." To every household altar then she went And made for each his garland of the green Boughs of the wind-blown myrtle, and was seen Praying, without a sob, without a tear. She knew the dread thing coming, but her clear Cheek never changed: till suddenly she fled Back to her own chamber and bridal bed: Then came the tears and she spoke all her thought. "O bed, whereon my laughing girlhood's knot Was severed by this man, for whom I die, Farewell! 'Tis thou ... I speak not bitterly.... 'Tis thou hast slain me. All alone I go Lest I be false to him or thee. And lo, Some woman shall lie here instead of me-- Happier perhaps; more true she cannot be." She kissed the pillow as she knelt, and wet With flooding tears was that fair coverlet. At last she had had her fill of weeping; then She tore herself away, and rose again, Walking with downcast eyes; yet turned before She had left the room, and cast her down once more Kneeling beside the bed. Then to her side The children came, and clung to her and cried, And her arms hugged them, and a long good-bye She gave to each, like one who goes to die. The whole house then was weeping, every slave In sorrow for his mistress. And she gave Her hand to all; aye, none so base was there She gave him not good words and he to her. So on Admetus falls from either side Sorrow. 'Twere bitter grief to him to have died Himself; and being escaped, how sore a woe He hath earned instead--Ah, some day he shall know! LEADER. Surely Admetus suffers, even to-day, For this true-hearted love he hath cast away? MAID. He weeps; begs her not leave him desolate, And holds her to his heart--too late, too late! She is sinking now, and there, beneath his eye Fading, the poor cold hand falls languidly, And faint is all her breath. Yet still she fain Would look once on the sunlight--once again And never more. I will go in and tell Thy presence. Few there be, will serve so well My master and stand by him to the end. But thou hast been from olden days our friend. [_The_ MAID _goes in_.] CHORUS. THIRD ELDER. O Zeus, What escape and where From the evil thing? How break the snare That is round our King? SECOND ELDER. Ah list! One cometh?... No. Let us no more wait; Make dark our raiment And shear this hair. LEADER. Aye, friends! 'Tis so, even so. Yet the gods are great And may send allayment. To prayer, to prayer! ALL (_praying_). O Paian wise! Some healing of this home devise, devise! Find, find.... Oh, long ago when we were blind Thine eyes saw mercy ... find some healing breath! Again, O Paian, break the chains that bind; Stay the red hand of Death! LEADER. Alas! What shame, what dread, Thou Pheres' son, Shalt be harvested When thy wife is gone! SECOND ELDER. Ah me; For a deed less drear Than this thou ruest Men have died for sorrow; Aye, hearts have bled. THIRD ELDER. 'Tis she; Not as men say dear, But the dearest, truest, Shall lie ere morrow Before thee dead! ALL. But lo! Once more! She and her husband moving to the door! Cry, cry! And thou, O land of Pherae, hearken! The bravest of women sinketh, perisheth, Under the green earth, down where the shadows darken, Down to the House of Death! [_During the last words_ ADMETUS _and_ ALCESTIS _have entered_. ALCESTIS _is supported by her Handmaids and followed by her two children._] LEADER. And who hath said that Love shall bring More joy to man than fear and strife? I knew his perils from of old, I know them now, when I behold The bitter faring of my King, Whose love is taken, and his life Left evermore an empty thing. ALCESTIS. O Sun, O light of the day that falls! O running cloud that races along the sky! ADMETUS. They look on thee and me, a stricken twain, Who have wrought no sin that God should have thee slain. ALCESTIS. Dear Earth, and House of sheltering walls, And wedded homes of the land where my fathers lie! ADMETUS. Fail not, my hapless one. Be strong, and pray The o'er-mastering Gods to hate us not alway. ALCESTIS (_faintly, her mind wandering_). A boat two-oared, upon water; I see, I see. And the Ferryman of the Dead, His hand that hangs on the pole, his voice that cries; "Thou lingerest; come. Come quickly, we wait for thee." He is angry that I am slow; he shakes his head. ADMETUS. Alas, a bitter boat-faring for me, My bride ill-starred.--Oh, this is misery! ALCESTIS (_as before_). Drawing, drawing! 'Tis some one that draweth me ... To the Palaces of the Dead. So dark. The wings, the eyebrows and ah, the eyes!... Go back! God's mercy! What seekest thou? Let me be!... (_Recovering_) Where am I? Ah, and what paths are these I tread? ADMETUS. Grievous for all who love thee, but for me And my two babes most hard, most solitary. ALCESTIS. Hold me not; let me lie.-- I am too weak to stand; and Death is near, And a slow darkness stealing on my sight. My little ones, good-bye. Soon, soon, and mother will be no more here.... Good-bye, two happy children in the light. ADMETUS. Oh, word of pain, oh, sharper ache Than any death of mine had brought! For the Gods' sake, desert me not, For thine own desolate children's sake. Nay, up! Be brave. For if they rend Thee from me, I can draw no breath; In thy hand are my life and death, Thine, my belovèd and my friend! ALCESTIS. Admetus, seeing what way my fortunes lie, I fain would speak with thee before I die. I have set thee before all things; yea, mine own Life beside thine was naught. For this alone I die.... Dear Lord, I never need have died. I might have lived to wed some prince of pride, Dwell in a king's house.... Nay, how could I, torn From thee, live on, I and my babes forlorn? I have given to thee my youth--not more nor less, But all--though I was full of happiness. Thy father and mother both--'tis strange to tell-- Had failed thee, though for them the deed was well, The years were ripe, to die and save their son, The one child of the house: for hope was none, If thou shouldst pass away, of other heirs. So thou and I had lived through the long years, Both. Thou hadst not lain sobbing here alone For a dead wife and orphan babes.... 'Tis done Now, and some God hath wrought out all his will. Howbeit I now will ask thee to fulfill One great return-gift--not so great withal As I have given, for life is more than all; But just and due, as thine own heart will tell. For thou hast loved our little ones as well As I have.... Keep them to be masters here In my old house; and bring no stepmother Upon them. She might hate them. She might be Some baser woman, not a queen like me, And strike them with her hand. For mercy, spare Our little ones that wrong. It is my prayer.... They come into a house: they are all strife And hate to any child of the dead wife.... Better a serpent than a stepmother! A boy is safe. He has his father there To guard him. But a little girl! (_Taking the_ LITTLE GIRL _to her_) What good And gentle care will guide thy maidenhood? What woman wilt thou find at father's side? One evil word from her, just when the tide Of youth is full, would wreck thy hope of love. And no more mother near, to stand above Thy marriage-bed, nor comfort thee pain-tossed In travail, when one needs a mother most! Seeing I must die.... 'Tis here, across my way, Not for the morrow, not for the third day, But now--Death, and to lie with things that were. Farewell. God keep you happy.--Husband dear, Remember that I failed thee not; and you, My children, that your mother loved you true. LEADER. Take comfort. Ere thy lord can speak, I swear, If truth is in him, he will grant thy prayer. ADMETUS. He will, he will! Oh, never fear for me. Mine hast thou been, and mine shalt ever be, Living and dead, thou only. None in wide Hellas but thou shalt be Admetus' bride. No race so high, no face so magic-sweet Shall ever from this purpose turn my feet. And children ... if God grant me joy of these, 'Tis all I ask; of thee no joy nor ease He gave me. And thy mourning I will bear Not one year of my life but every year, While life shall last.... My mother I will know No more. My father shall be held my foe. They brought the words of love but not the deed, While thou hast given thine all, and in my need Saved me. What can I do but weep alone, Alone alway, when such a wife is gone?... An end shall be of revel, and an end Of crowns and song and mirth of friend with friend, Wherewith my house was glad. I ne'er again Will touch the lute nor ease my heart from pain With pipes of Afric. All the joys I knew, And joys were many, thou hast broken in two. Oh, I will find some artist wondrous wise Shall mould for me thy shape, thine hair, thine eyes, And lay it in thy bed; and I will lie Close, and reach out mine arms to thee, and cry Thy name into the night, and wait and hear My own heart breathe: "Thy love, thy love is near." A cold delight; yet it might ease the sum Of sorrow.... And good dreams of thee will come Like balm. 'Tis sweet, even in a dream, to gaze On a dear face, the moment that it stays. O God, if Orpheus' voice were mine, to sing To Death's high Virgin and the Virgin's King, Till their hearts failed them, down would I my path Cleave, and naught stay me, not the Hound of Wrath, Not the grey oarsman of the ghostly tide, Till back to sunlight I had borne my bride. But now, wife, wait for me till I shall come Where thou art, and prepare our second home. These ministers in that same cedar sweet Where thou art laid will lay me, feet to feet, And head to head, oh, not in death from thee Divided, who alone art true to me! LEADER. This life-long sorrow thou hast sworn, I too, Thy friend, will bear with thee. It is her due. ALCESTIS. Children, ye heard his promise? He will wed No other woman nor forget the dead. ADMETUS. Again I promise. So it shall be done. ALCESTIS (_giving the children into his arms one after the other_). On that oath take my daughter: and my son. ADMETUS. Dear hand that gives, I accept both gift and vow. ALCESTIS. Thou, in my place, must be their mother now. ADMETUS. Else were they motherless--I needs must try. ALCESTIS. My babes, I ought to live, and lo, I die. ADMETUS. And how can I, forlorn of thee, live on? ALCESTIS. Time healeth; and the dead are dead and gone. ADMETUS. Oh, take me with thee to the dark below, Me also! ALCESTIS. 'Tis enough that one should go. ADMETUS. O Fate, to have cheated me of one so true! ALCESTIS (_her strength failing_). There comes a darkness: a great burden, too. ADMETUS. I am lost if thou wilt leave me.... Wife! Mine own! ALCESTIS. I am not thy wife; I am nothing. All is gone. ADMETUS. Thy babes! Thou wilt not leave them.--Raise thine eye. ALCESTIS. I am sorry.... But good-bye, children; good-bye. ADMETUS. Look at them! Wake and look at them! ALCESTIS. I must go. ADMETUS. What? Dying! ALCESTIS. Farewell, husband! [_She dies._] ADMETUS (_with a cry_). Ah!... Woe, woe! LEADER. Admetus' Queen is dead! [_While_ ADMETUS _is weeping silently, and the_ CHORUS _veil their faces, the_ LITTLE BOY _runs up to his dead Mother_.] LITTLE BOY. Oh, what has happened? Mummy has gone away, And left me and will not come back any more! Father, I shall be lonely all the day.... Look! Look! Her eyes ... and her arms not like before, How they lie ... Mother! Oh, speak a word! Answer me, answer me, Mother! It is I. I am touching your face. It is I, your little bird. ADMETUS (_recovering himself and going to the Child_). She hears us not, she sees us not. We lie Under a heavy grief, child, thou and I. LITTLE BOY. I am so little, Father, and lonely and cold Here without Mother. It is too hard.... And you, Poor little sister, too. Oh, Father! Such a little time we had her. She might have stayed On till we all were old.... Everything is spoiled when Mother is dead. [_The_ LITTLE BOY _is taken away, with his Sister, sobbing_.] LEADER. My King, thou needs must gird thee to the worst. Thou shalt not be the last, nor yet the first, To lose a noble wife. Be brave, and know To die is but a debt that all men owe. ADMETUS. I know. It came not without doubts and fears, This thing. The thought hath poisoned all my years. Howbeit, I now will make the burial due To this dead Queen. Be assembled, all of you; And, after, raise your triumph-song to greet This pitiless Power that yawns beneath our feet. Meantime let all in Thessaly who dread My sceptre join in mourning for the dead With temples sorrow-shorn and sable weed. Ye chariot-lords, ye spurrers of the steed, Shear close your horses' manes! Let there be found Through all my realm no lute, nor lyre, nor sound Of piping, till twelve moons are at an end. For never shall I lose a closer friend, Nor braver in my need. And worthy is she Of honour, who alone hath died for me. [_The body of_ ALCESTIS _is carried into the house by mourners;_ ADMETUS _follows it._] CHORUS. Daughter of Pelias, fare thee well, May joy be thine in the Sunless Houses! For thine is a deed which the Dead shall tell Where a King black-browed in the gloom carouses; And the cold grey hand at the helm and oar Which guideth shadows from shore to shore, Shall bear this day o'er the Tears that Well, A Queen of women, a spouse of spouses. Minstrels many shall praise thy name With lyre full-strung and with voices lyreless, When Mid-Moon riseth, an orbèd flame, And from dusk to dawning the dance is tireless; And Carnos cometh to Sparta's call, And Athens shineth in festival; For thy death is a song, and a fullness of fame, Till the heart of the singer is left desireless. LEADER. Would I could reach thee, oh, Reach thee and save, my daughter, Starward from gulfs of Hell, Past gates, past tears that swell, Where the weak oar climbs thro' The night and the water! SECOND ELDER. Belovèd and lonely one, Who feared not dying: Gone in another's stead Alone to the hungry dead: Light be the carven stone Above thee lying! THIRD ELDER. Oh, he who should seek again A new bride after thee, Were loathed of thy children twain, And loathed of me. LEADER. Word to his mother sped, Praying to her who bore him; Word to his father, old, Heavy with years and cold; "Quick, ere your son be dead! What dare ye for him?" SECOND ELDER. Old, and they dared not; grey, And they helped him never! 'Twas she, in her youth and pride, Rose up for her lord and died. Oh, love of two hearts that stay One-knit for ever.... THIRD ELDER. 'Tis rare in the world! God send Such bride in my house to be; She should live life to the end, Not fail through me. [_As the song ceases there enters a stranger, walking strongly, but travel-stained, dusty, and tired. His lion-skin and club show him to be_ HERACLES.] HERACLES. Ho, countrymen! To Pherae am I come By now? And is Admetus in his home? LEADER. Our King is in his house, Lord Heracles.-- But say, what need brings thee in days like these To Thessaly and Pherae's wallèd ring? HERACLES. A quest I follow for the Argive King. LEADER. What prize doth call thee, and to what far place? HERACLES. The horses of one Diomede, in Thrace. LEADER. But how...? Thou know'st not? Is he strange to thee? HERACLES. Quite strange. I ne'er set foot in Bistony. LEADER. Not without battle shalt thou win those steeds. HERACLES. So be it! I cannot fail my master's needs. LEADER. 'Tis slay or die, win or return no more. HERACLES. Well, I have looked on peril's face before. LEADER. What profit hast thou in such manslaying? HERACLES. I shall bring back the horses to my King. LEADER. 'Twere none such easy work to bridle them. HERACLES. Not easy? Have they nostrils breathing flame? LEADER. They tear men's flesh; their jaws are swift with blood. HERACLES. Men's flesh! 'Tis mountain wolves', not horses' food! LEADER. Thou wilt see their mangers clogged with blood, like mire. HERACLES. And he who feeds such beasts, who was his sire? LEADER. Ares, the war-lord of the Golden Targe. HERACLES. Enough!--This labour fitteth well my large Fortune, still upward, still against the wind. How often with these kings of Ares' kind Must I do battle? First the dark wolf-man, Lycaon; then 'twas he men called The Swan; And now this man of steeds!... Well, none shall see Alcmena's son turn from his enemy. LEADER. Lo, as we speak, this land's high governor, Admetus, cometh from his castle door. _Enter_ ADMETUS _from the Castle_. ADMETUS. Zeus-born of Perseid line, all joy to thee! HERACLES. Joy to Admetus, Lord of Thessaly! ADMETUS. Right welcome were she!--But thy love I know. HERACLES. But why this mourning hair, this garb of woe? ADMETUS (_in a comparatively light tone_). There is a burial I must make to-day. HERACLES. God keep all evil from thy children! ADMETUS. Nay, My children live. HERACLES. Thy father, if 'tis he, Is ripe in years. ADMETUS. He liveth, friend, and she Who bore me. HERACLES. Surely not thy wife? 'Tis not Alcestis? ADMETUS (_his composure a little shaken_). Ah; two answers share my thought, Questioned of her. HERACLES. Is she alive or dead? ADMETUS. She is, and is not; and my heart hath bled Long years for her. HERACLES. I understand no more. Thy words are riddles. ADMETUS. Heard'st thou not of yore The doom that she must meet? HERACLES. I know thy wife Has sworn to die for thee. ADMETUS. And is it life, To live with such an oath hung o'er her head? HERACLES (_relieved_). Ah, Weep not too soon, friend. Wait till she be dead. ADMETUS. He dies who is doomed to die; he is dead who dies. HERACLES. The two are different things in most men's eyes. ADMETUS. Decide thy way, lord, and let me decide The other way. HERACLES. Who is it that has died? Thou weepest. ADMETUS. 'Tis a woman. It doth take My memory back to her of whom we spake. HERACLES. A stranger, or of kin to thee? ADMETUS. Not kin, But much beloved. HERACLES. How came she to be in Thy house to die? ADMETUS. Her father died, and so She came to us, an orphan, long ago. HERACLES (_as though about to depart_). 'Tis sad. I would I had found thee on a happier day. ADMETUS. Thy words have some intent: what wouldst thou say? HERACLES. I must find harbour with some other friend. ADMETUS. My prince, it may not be! God never send Such evil! HERACLES. 'Tis great turmoil, when a guest Comes to a mourning house. ADMETUS. Come in and rest. Let the dead die! HERACLES. I cannot, for mere shame, Feast beside men whose eyes have tears in them. ADMETUS. The guest-rooms are apart where thou shalt be. HERACLES. Friend, let me go. I shall go gratefully. ADMETUS. Thou shalt not enter any door but mine. (_To an Attendant_) Lead in our guest. Unlock the furthest line Of guest-chambers; and bid the stewards there Make ready a full feast; then close with care The midway doors. 'Tis unmeet, if he hears Our turmoil or is burdened with our tears. [_The Attendant leads_ HERACLES _into the house_.] LEADER. How, master? When within a thing so sad Lies, thou wilt house a stranger? Art thou mad? ADMETUS. And had I turned the stranger from my door, Who sought my shelter, hadst thou praised me more? I trow not, if my sorrow were thereby No whit less, only the more friendless I. And more, when bards tell tales, were it not worse My house should lie beneath the stranger's curse? Now he is my sure friend, if e'er I stand Lonely in Argos, in a thirsty land. LEADER. Thou callest him thy friend; how didst thou dare Keep hid from him the burden of thy care? ADMETUS. He never would have entered, had he known My grief.--Aye, men may mock what I have done, And call me fool. My house hath never learned To fail its friend, nor seen the stranger spurned. [ADMETUS _goes into the house_] CHORUS. Oh, a House that loves the stranger, And a House for ever free! And Apollo, the Song-changer, Was a herdsman in thy fee; Yea, a-piping he was found, Where the upward valleys wound, To the kine from out the manger And the sheep from off the lea, And love was upon Othrys at the sound. And from deep glens unbeholden Of the forest to his song There came lynxes streaky-golden, There came lions in a throng, Tawny-coated, ruddy-eyed, To that piper in his pride; And shy fawns he would embolden, Dappled dancers, out along The shadow by the pine-tree's side. And those magic pipes a-blowing Have fulfilled thee in thy reign By thy Lake with honey flowing, By thy sheepfolds and thy grain; Where the Sun turns his steeds To the twilight, all the meads Of Molossus know thy sowing And thy ploughs upon the plain. Yea, and eastward thou art free To the portals of the sea, And Pelion, the unharboured, is but minister to thee. He hath opened wide his dwelling To the stranger, though his ruth For the dead was fresh and welling, For the loved one of his youth. 'Tis the brave heart's cry: "I will fail not, though I die!" Doth it win, with no man's telling, Some high vision of the truth? We may marvel. Yet I trust, When man seeketh to be just And to pity them that wander, God will raise him from the dust. [_As the song ceases the doors are thrown open and_ ADMETUS _comes before them: a great funeral procession is seen moving out._] ADMETUS. Most gentle citizens, our dead is here Made ready; and these youths to bear the bier Uplifted to the grave-mound and the urn. Now, seeing she goes forth never to return, Bid her your last farewell, as mourners may. [_The procession moves forward, past him_.] LEADER. Nay, lord; thy father, walking old and grey; And followers bearing burial gifts and brave Gauds, which men call the comfort of the grave. _Enter_ PHERES _with followers bearing robes and gifts_. PHERES. I come in sorrow for thy sorrow, son. A faithful wife indeed thou hast lost, and one Who ruled her heart. But, howso hard they be, We needs must bear these griefs.--Some gifts for thee Are here.... Yes; take them. Let them go beneath The sod. We both must honour her in death, Seeing she hath died, my son, that thou mayst live Nor I be childless. Aye, she would not give My soul to a sad old age, mourning for thee. Methinks she hath made all women's life to be A nobler thing, by one great woman's deed. Thou saviour of my son, thou staff in need To our wrecked age, farewell! May some good life Be thine still in the grave.--Oh, 'tis a wife Like this man needs; else let him stay unwed! [_The old man has not noticed_ ADMETUS'S _gathering indignation_.] ADMETUS. I called not thee to burial of my dead, Nor count thy presence here a welcome thing. My wife shall wear no robe that thou canst bring, Nor needs thy help in aught. There was a day We craved thy love, when I was on my way Deathward--thy love, which bade thee stand aside And watch, grey-bearded, while a young man died! And now wilt mourn for her? Thy fatherhood! Thou wast no true begetter of my blood, Nor she my mother who dares call me child. Oh, she was barren ever; she beguiled Thy folly with some bastard of a thrall. Here is thy proof! This hour hath shown me all Thou art; and now I am no more thy son. 'Fore God, among all cowards can scarce be one Like thee. So grey, so near the boundary Of mortal life, thou wouldst not, durst not, die To save thy son! Thou hast suffered her to do Thine office, her, no kin to me nor you, Yet more than kin! Henceforth she hath all the part Of mother, yea, and father in my heart. And what a glory had been thine that day, Dying to save thy son--when, either way, Thy time must needs be brief. Thy life has had Abundance of the things that make men glad; A crown that came to thee in youth; a son To do thee worship and maintain thy throne-- Not like a childless king, whose folk and lands Lie helpless, to be torn by strangers' hands. Wilt say I failed in duty to thine age; For that thou hast let me die? Not so; most sage, Most pious I was, to mother and to thee; And thus ye have paid me! Well, I counsel ye. Lose no more time. Get quick another son To foster thy last years, to lay thee on Thy bier, when dead, and wrap thee in thy pall. _I_ will not bury thee. I am, for all The care thou hast shown me, dead. If I have found Another, true to save me at the bound Of life and death, that other's child am I, That other's fostering friend, until I die. How falsely do these old men pray for death, Cursing their weight of years, their weary breath! When Death comes close, there is not one that dares To die; age is forgot and all its cares. LEADER. Oh, peace! Enough of sorrow in our path Is strewn. Thou son, stir not thy father's wrath. PHERES. My son, whom seekest thou ... some Lydian thrall, Or Phrygian, bought with cash?... to affright withal By cursing? I am a Thessalian, free, My father a born chief of Thessaly; And thou most insolent. Yet think not so To fling thy loud lewd words at me and go. I got thee to succeed me in my hall, I have fed thee, clad thee. But I have no call To die for thee. Not in our family, Not in all Greece, doth law bid fathers die To save their sons. Thy road of life is thine None other's, to rejoice at or repine. All that was owed to thee by us is paid. My throne is thine. My broad lands shall be made Thine, as I had them from my father.... Say, How have I wronged thee? What have I kept away? "Not died for thee?"... I ask not thee to die. Thou lovest this light: shall I not love it, I?... 'Tis age on age there, in the dark; and here My sunlit time is short, but dear; but dear. Thou hast fought hard enough. Thou drawest breath Even now, long past thy portioned hour of death, By murdering her ... and blamest my faint heart, Coward, who hast let a woman play thy part And die to save her pretty soldier! Aye, A good plan, surely! Thou needst never die; Thou canst find alway somewhere some fond wife To die for thee. But, prithee, make not strife With other friends, who will not save thee so. Be silent, loving thine own life, and know All men love theirs!... Taunt others, and thou too Shalt hear much that is bitter, and is true. LEADER. Too much of wrath before, too much hath run After. Old man, cease to revile thy son. ADMETUS. Speak on. I have spoken.... If my truth of tongue Gives pain to thee, why didst thou do me wrong? PHERES. Wrong? To have died for thee were far more wrong. ADMETUS. How can an old life weigh against a young? PHERES. Man hath but one, not two lives, to his use. ADMETUS. Oh, live on; live, and grow more old than Zeus! PHERES. Because none wrongs thee, thou must curse thy sire? ADMETUS. I blest him. Is not life his one desire? PHERES. This dead, methinks, is lying in _thy_ place. ADMETUS. A proof, old traitor, of thy cowardliness! PHERES. Died she through me?... That thou wilt hardly say. ADMETUS (_almost breaking down_). O God! Mayst thou but feel the need of me some day! PHERES. Go forward; woo more wives that more may die. ADMETUS. As thou wouldst not! Thine is the infamy. PHERES. This light of heaven is sweet, and sweet again. ADMETUS. Thy heart is foul. A thing unmeet for men. PHERES. Thou laugh'st not yet across the old man's tomb. ADMETUS. Dishonoured thou shalt die when death shall come. PHERES. Once dead, I shall not care what tales are told. ADMETUS. Great Gods, so lost to honour and so old! PHERES. She was not lost to honour: she was blind. ADMETUS. Go! Leave me with my dead.... Out from my mind! PHERES. I go. Bury the woman thou hast slain.... Her kinsmen yet may come to thee with plain Question. Acastus hath small place in good Men, if he care not for his sister's blood. [PHERES _goes off, with his Attendants_. ADMETUS _calls after him as he goes._] ADMETUS. Begone, begone, thou and thy bitter mate! Be old and childless--ye have earned your fate-- While your son lives! For never shall ye be From henceforth under the same roof with me.... Must I send heralds and a trumpet's call To abjure thy blood? Fear not, I will send them all.... [PHERES _is now out of sight;_ ADMETUS _drops his defiance and seems like a broken man._] But we--our sorrow is upon us; come With me, and let us bear her to the tomb. CHORUS. Ah me! Farewell, unfalteringly brave! Farewell, thou generous heart and true! May Pluto give thee welcome due, And Hermes love thee in the grave. Whate'er of blessèd life there be For high souls to the darkness flown, Be thine for ever, and a throne Beside the crowned Persephonê. [_The funeral procession has formed and moves slowly out, followed by_ ADMETUS _and the_ CHORUS. _The stage is left empty, till a side door of the Castle opens and there comes out a_ SERVANT, _angry and almost in tears._] SERVANT. Full many a stranger and from many a land Hath lodged in this old castle, and my hand Served them; but never has there passed this way A scurvier ruffian than our guest to-day. He saw my master's grief, but all the more In he must come, and shoulders through the door. And after, think you he would mannerly Take what was set before him? No, not he! If, on this day of trouble, we left out Some small thing, he must have it with a shout. Up, in both hands, our vat of ivy-wood He raised, and drank the dark grape's burning blood, Strong and untempered, till the fire was red Within him; then put myrtle round his head And roared some noisy song. So had we there Discordant music. He, without a care For all the affliction of Admetus' halls, Sang on; and, listening, one could hear the thralls In the long gallery weeping for the dead. We let him see no tears. Our master made That order, that the stranger must not know. So here I wait in her own house, and do Service to some black thief, some man of prey; And she has gone, has gone for ever away. I never followed her, nor lifted high My hand to bless her; never said good-bye.... I loved her like my mother. So did all The slaves. She never let his anger fall Too hard. She saved us alway.... And this wild beast Comes in our sorrow when we need him least! [_During the last few lines_ HERACLES _has entered, unperceived by the_ SERVANT. _He has evidently bathed and changed his garments and drunk his fill, and is now revelling, a garland of flowers on his head. He frightens the_ SERVANT _a little from time to time during the following speech._] HERACLES. Friend, why so solemn and so cranky-eyed? 'Tis not a henchman's office, to show pride To his betters. He should smile and make good cheer. There comes a guest, thy lord's old comrade, here; And thou art all knitted eyebrows, scowls and head Bent, because somebody, forsooth, is dead! Come close! I mean to make thee wiser. [_The_ SERVANT _reluctantly comes close._] So. Dost comprehend things mortal, how they grow?... (_To himself_) I suppose not. How could he?... Look this way! Death is a debt all mortal men must pay; Aye, there is no man living who can say If life will last him yet a single day. On, to the dark, drives Fortune; and no force Can wrest her secret nor put back her course.... I have told thee now. I have taught thee. After this Eat, drink, make thyself merry. Count the bliss Of the one passing hour thine own; the rest Is Fortune's. And give honour chiefliest To our lady Cypris, giver of all joys To man. 'Tis a sweet goddess. Otherwise, Let all these questions sleep and just obey My counsel.... Thou believest all I say? I hope so.... Let this stupid grieving be; Rise up above thy troubles, and with me Drink in a cloud of blossoms. By my soul, I vow the sweet plash-music of the bowl Will break thy glumness, loose thee from the frown Within. Let mortal man keep to his own Mortality, and not expect too much. To all your solemn dogs and other such Scowlers--I tell thee truth, no more nor less-- Life is not life, but just unhappiness. [_He offers the wine-bowl to the_ SERVANT, _who avoids it_.] SERVANT. We know all this. But now our fortunes be Not such as ask for mirth or revelry. HERACLES. A woman dead, of no one's kin; why grieve So much? Thy master and thy mistress live. SERVANT. Live? Man, hast thou heard nothing of our woe? HERACLES. Yes, thy lord told me all I need to know. SERVANT. He is too kind to his guests, more kind than wise. HERACLES. Must I go starved because some stranger dies? SERVANT. Some stranger?--Yes, a stranger verily! HERACLES (_his manner beginning to change_). Is this some real grief he hath hid from me? SERVANT. Go, drink, man! Leave to us our master's woes. HERACLES. It sounds not like a stranger. Yet, God knows... SERVANT. How should thy revelling hurt, if that were all? HERACLES. Hath mine own friend so wronged me in his hall? SERVANT. Thou camest at an hour when none was free To accept thee. We were mourning. Thou canst see Our hair, black robes... HERACLES (_suddenly, in a voice of thunder_). Who is it that is dead? SERVANT. Alcestis, the King's wife. HERACLES (_overcome_). What hast thou said? Alcestis?... And ye feasted me withal! SERVANT. He held it shame to turn thee from his hall. HERACLES. Shame! And when such a wondrous wife was gone! SERVANT (_breaking into tears_). Oh, all is gone, all lost, not she alone! HERACLES. I knew, I felt it, when I saw his tears, And face, and shorn hair. But he won mine ears With talk of the strange woman and her rite Of burial. So in mine own heart's despite I crossed his threshold and sat drinking--he And I old friends!--in his calamity. Drank, and sang songs, and revelled, my head hot With wine and flowers!... And thou to tell me not, When all the house lay filled with sorrow, thou! (_A pause; then suddenly_) Where lies the tomb?--Where shall I find her now? SERVANT (_frightened_). Close by the straight Larissa road. The tall White marble showeth from the castle wall. HERACLES. O heart, O hand, great doings have ye done Of old: up now, and show them what a son Took life that hour, when she of Tiryns' sod, Electryon's daughter, mingled with her God! I needs must save this woman from the shore Of death and set her in her house once more, Repaying Admetus' love.... This Death, this black And wingèd Lord of corpses, I will track Home. I shall surely find him by the grave A-hungered, lapping the hot blood they gave In sacrifice. An ambush: then, one spring, One grip! These arms shall be a brazen ring, With no escape, no rest, howe'er he whine And curse his mauled ribs, till the Queen is mine! Or if he escape me, if he come not there To seek the blood of offering, I will fare Down to the Houses without Light, and bring To Her we name not and her nameless King Strong prayers, until they yield to me and send Alcestis home, to life and to my friend: Who gave me shelter, drove me not away In his great grief, but hid his evil day Like a brave man, because he loved me well. Is one in all this land more hospitable, One in all Greece? I swear no man shall say He hath cast his love upon a churl away! [_He goes forth, just as he is, in the direction of the grave. The_ SERVANT _watches a moment and goes back into the hall._] [_The stage is empty; then_ ADMETUS _and the_ CHORUS _return._] ADMETUS. Alas! Bitter the homeward way, Bitter to seek A widowed house; ah me, Where should I fly or stay, Be dumb or speak? Would I could cease to be! Despair, despair! My mother bore me under an evil star. I envy them that are perished; my heart is there. It dwells in the Sunless Houses, afar, afar. I take no joy in looking upon the light; No joy in the feel of the earth beneath my tread. The Slayer hath taken his hostage; the Lord of the Dead Holdeth me sworn to taste no more delight. [_He throws himself on the ground in despair._] CHORUS. [_Each member of the_ CHORUS _speaks his line severally, as he passes_ ADMETUS, _who is heard sobbing at the end of each line._] --Advance, advance; Till the house shall give thee cover. --Thou hast borne heavy things And meet for lamentation. --Thou hast passed, hast passed, Thro' the deepest of the River. --Yet no help comes To the sad and silent nation. --And the face of thy belovèd, it shall meet thee never, never! ADMETUS. Ye wrench my wounds asunder. Where Is grief like mine, whose wife is dead? My wife, whom would I ne'er had wed, Nor loved, nor held my house with her.... Blessed are they who dare to dwell Unloved of woman! 'Tis but one Heart that they bleed with, and alone Can bear their one life's burden well. No young shall wither at their side, No bridal room be swept by death.... Aye, better man should draw his breath For ever without child or bride. CHORUS (_as before_). --'Tis Fate, 'tis Fate: She is strong and none shall break her. --No end, no end, Wilt thou lay to lamentations? --Endure and be still: Thy lamenting will not wake her. --There be many before thee, Who have suffered and had patience. --Though the face of Sorrow changeth, yet her hand is on all nations. ADMETUS. The garb of tears, the mourner's cry: Then the long ache when tears are past!... Oh, why didst hinder me to cast This body to the dust and die With her, the faithful and the brave? Then not one lonely soul had fled, But two great lovers, proudly dead, Through the deep waters of the grave. LEADER. A friend I knew, In whose house died a son, Worthy of bitter rue, His only one. His head sank, yet he bare Stilly his weight of care, Though grey was in his hair And life nigh done. ADMETUS. Ye shapes that front me, wall and gate, How shall I enter in and dwell Among ye, with all Fortune's spell Dischanted? Aye, the change is great. That day I strode with bridal song Through lifted brands of Pelian pine; A hand belovèd lay in mine; And loud behind a revelling throng Exalted me and her, the dead. They called us young, high-hearted; told How princes were our sires of old, And how we loved and we must wed.... For those high songs, lo, men that moan, And raiment black where once was white; Who guide me homeward in the night, On that waste bed to lie alone. SECOND ELDER. It breaks, like strife, Thy long peace, where no pain Had entered; yet is life, Sweet life, not slain. A wife dead; a dear chair Empty: is that so rare? Men live without despair Whose loves are ta'en. ADMETUS (_erect and facing them_). Behold, I count my wife's fate happier, Though all gainsay me, than mine own. To her Comes no more pain for ever; she hath rest And peace from all toil, and her name is blest. But I am one who hath no right to stay Alive on earth; one that hath lost his way In fate, and strays in dreams of life long past.... Friends, I have learned my lesson at the last. I have my life. Here stands my house. But now How dare I enter in? Or, entered, how Go forth again? Go forth, when none is there To give me a parting word, and I to her?... Where shall I turn for refuge? There within, The desert that remains where she hath been Will drive me forth, the bed, the empty seat She sat in; nay, the floor beneath my feet Unswept, the children crying at my knee For mother; and the very thralls will be In sobs for the dear mistress that is lost. That is my home! If I go forth, a host Of feasts and bridal dances, gatherings gay Of women, will be there to fright me away To loneliness. Mine eyes will never bear The sight. They were her friends; they played with her. And always, always, men who hate my name Will murmur: "This is he who lives in shame Because he dared not die! He gave instead The woman whom he loved, and so is fled From death. He counts himself a man withal! And seeing his parents died not at his call He hates them, when himself he dared not die!" Such mocking beside all my pain shall I Endure.... What profit was it to live on, Friend, with my grief kept and mine honour gone? CHORUS. I have sojourned in the Muse's land, Have wandered with the wandering star, Seeking for strength, and in my hand Held all philosophies that are; Yet nothing could I hear nor see Stronger than That Which Needs Must Be. No Orphic rune, no Thracian scroll, Hath magic to avert the morrow; No healing all those medicines brave Apollo to the Asclepiad gave; Pale herbs of comfort in the bowl Of man's wide sorrow. She hath no temple, she alone, Nor image where a man may kneel; No blood upon her altar-stone Crying shall make her hear nor feel. I know thy greatness; come not great Beyond my dreams, O Power of Fate! Aye, Zeus himself shall not unclose His purpose save by thy decerning. The chain of iron, the Scythian sword, It yields and shivers at thy word; Thy heart is as the rock, and knows No ruth, nor turning. [_They turn to_ ADMETUS.] Her hand hath caught thee; yea, the keeping Of iron fingers grips thee round. Be still. Be still. Thy noise of weeping Shall raise no lost one from the ground. Nay, even the Sons of God are parted At last from joy, and pine in death.... Oh, dear on earth when all did love her, Oh, dearer lost beyond recover: Of women all the bravest-hearted Hath pressed thy lips and breathed thy breath. Let not the earth that lies upon her Be deemed a grave-mound of the dead. Let honour, as the Gods have honour, Be hers, till men shall bow the head, And strangers, climbing from the city Her slanting path, shall muse and say: "This woman died to save her lover, And liveth blest, the stars above her: Hail, Holy One, and grant thy pity!" So pass the wondering words away. LEADER. But see, it is Alcmena's son once more, My lord King, cometh striding to thy door. [_Enter_ HERACLES; _his dress is as in the last scene, but shows signs of a struggle. Behind come two Attendants, guiding between them a veiled Woman, who seems like one asleep or unconscious. The Woman remains in the background while_ HERACLES _comes forward._] HERACLES. Thou art my friend, Admetus; therefore bold And plain I tell my story, and withhold No secret hurt.--Was I not worthy, friend, To stand beside thee; yea, and to the end Be proven in sorrow if I was true to thee? And thou didst tell me not a word, while she Lay dead within; but bid me feast, as though Naught but the draping of some stranger's woe Was on thee. So I garlanded my brow And poured the gods drink-offering, and but now Filled thy death-stricken house with wine and song. Thou hast done me wrong, my brother; a great wrong Thou hast done me. But I will not add more pain In thine affliction. Why I am here again, Returning, thou must hear. I pray thee, take And keep yon woman for me till I make My homeward way from Thrace, when I have ta'en Those four steeds and their bloody master slain. And if--which heaven avert!--I ne'er should see Hellas again, I leave her here, to be An handmaid in thy house. No labour small Was it that brought her to my hand at all. I fell upon a contest certain Kings Had set for all mankind, sore buffetings And meet for strong men, where I staked my life And won this woman. For the easier strife Black steeds were prizes; herds of kine were cast For heavier issues, fists and wrestling; last, This woman.... Lest my work should all seem done For naught, I needs must keep what I have won; So prithee take her in. No theft, but true Toil, won her.... Some day thou mayst thank me, too. ADMETUS. 'Twas in no scorn, no bitterness to thee, I hid my wife's death and my misery. Methought it was but added pain on pain If thou shouldst leave me, and roam forth again Seeking another's roof. And, for mine own Sorrow, I was content to weep alone. But, for this damsel, if it may be so, I pray thee, Lord, let some man, not in woe Like mine, take her. Thou hast in Thessaly Abundant friends.... 'Twould wake sad thoughts in me. How could I have this damsel in my sight And keep mine eyes dry? Prince, why wilt thou smite The smitten? Griefs enough are on my head. Where in my castle could so young a maid Be lodged--her veil and raiment show her young: Here, in the men's hall? I should fear some wrong. 'Tis not so easy, Prince, to keep controlled My young men. And thy charge I fain would hold Sacred.--If not, wouldst have me keep her in The women's chambers ... where my dead hath been? How could I lay this woman where my bride Once lay? It were dishonour double-dyed. These streets would curse the man who so betrayed The wife who saved him for some younger maid; The dead herself ... I needs must worship her And keep her will. [_During the last few lines_ ADMETUS _has been looking at the veiled Woman and, though he does not consciously recognize her, feels a strange emotion overmastering him. He draws back._] Aye. I must walk with care.... O woman, whosoe'er thou art, thou hast The shape of my Alcestis; thou art cast In mould like hers.... Oh, take her from mine eyes! In God's name! [HERACLES _signs to the Attendants to take_ ALCESTIS _away again. She stays veiled and unnoticing in the background._] I was fallen, and in this wise Thou wilt make me deeper fall.... Meseems, meseems, There in her face the loved one of my dreams Looked forth.--My heart is made a turbid thing, Craving I know not what, and my tears spring Unbidden.--Grief I knew 'twould be; but how Fiery a grief I never knew till now. LEADER. Thy fate I praise not. Yet, what gift soe'er God giveth, man must steel himself and bear. HERACLES (_drawing_ ADMETUS _on_). Would God, I had the power, 'mid all this might Of arm, to break the dungeons of the night, And free thy wife, and make thee glad again! ADMETUS. Where is such power? I know thy heart were fain; But so 'tis writ. The dead shall never rise. HERACLES. Chafe not the curb, then: suffer and be wise. ADMETUS. Easier to give such counsel than to keep. HERACLES. Who will be happier, shouldst thou always weep? ADMETUS. Why, none. Yet some blind longing draws me on... HERACLES. 'Tis natural. Thou didst love her that is gone. ADMETUS. 'Tis that hath wrecked, oh more than wrecked, my life. HERACLES. 'Tis certain: thou hast lost a faithful wife. ADMETUS. Till life itself is dead and wearies me. HERACLES. Thy pain is yet young. Time will soften thee, [_The veiled Woman begins dimly, as though in a dream, to hear the words spoken._] ADMETUS. Time? Yes, if time be death. HERACLES. Nay, wait; and some Woman, some new desire of love, will come. ADMETUS (_indignantly_). Peace! How canst thou? Shame upon thee! HERACLES. Thou wilt stay Unwed for ever, lonely night and day? ADMETUS. No other bride in these void arms shall lie. HERACLES. What profit will thy dead wife gain thereby? ADMETUS. Honour; which finds her wheresoe'er she lies. HERACLES. Most honourable in thee: but scarcely wise! ADMETUS. God curse me, if I betray her in her tomb! HERACLES. So be it!... And this good damsel, thou wilt take her home? ADMETUS. No, in the name of Zeus, thy father! No! HERACLES. I swear, 'tis not well to reject her so. ADMETUS. 'Twould tear my heart to accept her. HERACLES. Grant me, friend, This one boon! It may help thee in the end. ADMETUS. Woe's me! Would God thou hadst never won those victories! HERACLES. Thou sharest both the victory and the prize. ADMETUS. Thou art generous.... But now let her go. HERACLES. She shall, If go she must. Look first, and judge withal. [_He takes the veil off_ ALCESTIS.] ADMETUS (_steadily refusing to look_). She must.--And thou, forgive me! HERACLES. Friend, there is A secret reason why I pray for this. ADMETUS (_surprised, then reluctantly yielding_). I grant thy boon then--though it likes me ill. HERACLES. 'Twill like thee later. Now ... but do my will. ADMETUS (_beckoning to an Attendant_). Take her; find her some lodging in my hall. HERACLES. I will not yield this maid to any thrall. ADMETUS. Take her thyself and lead her in. HERACLES. I stand Beside her; take her; lead her to thy hand. [_He brings the Woman close to_ ADMETUS, _who looks determinedly away. She reaches out her arms._] ADMETUS. I touch her not.--Let her go in! HERACLES. I am loth To trust her save to thy pledged hand and oath. [_He lays his hand on_ ADMETUS'S _shoulder_.] ADMETUS (_desperately_). Lord, this is violence ... wrong ... HERACLES. Reach forth thine hand And touch this comer from a distant land. ADMETUS (_holding out his hand without looking_). Like Perseus when he touched the Gorgon, there! HERACLES. Thou hast touched her? ADMETUS (_at last taking her hand_). Touched her?... Yes. HERACLES (_a hand on the shoulder of each_). Then cling to her; And say if thou hast found a guest of grace In God's son, Heracles! Look in her face; Look; is she like...? [ADMETUS _looks and stands amazed_.] Go, and forget in bliss Thy sorrow! ADMETUS. O ye Gods! What meaneth this? A marvel beyond dreams! The face ... 'tis she; Mine, verily mine! Or doth God mock at me And blast my vision with some mad surmise? HERACLES. Not so. This is thy wife before thine eyes. ADMETUS (_who has recoiled in his amazement_). Beware! The dead have phantoms that they send... HERACLES. Nay; no ghost-raiser hast thou made thy friend. ADMETUS. My wife ... she whom I buried? HERACLES. I deceive Thee not; nor wonder thou canst scarce believe. ADMETUS. And dare I touch her, greet her, as mine own Wife living? HERACLES. Greet her. Thy desire is won. ADMETUS (_approaching with awe_), Beloved eyes; beloved form; O thou Gone beyond hope, I have thee, I hold thee now? HERACLES. Thou hast her: may no god begrudge your joy. ADMETUS (_turning to_ HERACLES). O lordly conqueror, Child of Zeus on high, Be blessèd! And may He, thy sire above, Save thee, as thou alone hast saved my love! [_He kneels to_ HERACLES, _who raises him_.] But how ... how didst thou win her to the light? HERACLES. I fought for life with Him I needs must fight. ADMETUS. With Death thou hast fought! But where? HERACLES. Among his dead I lay, and sprang and gripped him as he fled. ADMETUS (_in an awed whisper, looking towards_ ALCESTIS). Why standeth she so still? No sound, no word! HERACLES. She hath dwelt with Death. Her voice may not be heard Ere to the Lords of Them Below she pay Due cleansing, and awake on the third day. (_To the Attendants_) So; guide her home. [_They lead_ ALCESTIS _to the doorway_.] And thou, King, for the rest Of time, be true; be righteous to thy guest, As he would have thee be. But now farewell! My task yet lies before me, and the spell That binds me to my master; forth I fare. ADMETUS. Stay with us this one day! Stay but to share The feast upon our hearth! HERACLES. The feasting day Shall surely come; now I must needs away. [HERACLES _departs_.] ADMETUS. Farewell! All victory attend thy name And safe home-coming! Lo, I make proclaim To the Four Nations and all Thessaly; A wondrous happiness hath come to be: Therefore pray, dance, give offerings and make full Your altars with the life-blood of the Bull! For me ... my heart is changed; my life shall mend Henceforth. For surely Fortune is a friend. [_He goes with_ ALCESTIS _into the house_.] CHORUS. There be many shapes of mystery; And many things God brings to be, Past hope or fear. And the end men looked for cometh not, And a path is there where no man thought. So hath it fallen here. NOTES P. 3, Prologue. Asclêpios (Latin Aesculapius), son of Apollo, the hero-physician, by his miraculous skill healed the dead. This transgressed the divine law, so Zeus slew him. (The particular dead man raised by him was Hippolytus, who came to life in Italy under the name of Virbius, and was worshipped with Artemis at Aricia.) Apollo in revenge, not presuming to attack Zeus himself, killed the Cyclopes, and was punished by being exiled from heaven and made servant to a mortal. There are several such stories of gods made servants to human beings. P. 3, l. 12, Beguiling.]--See Preface. In the original story he made them drunk with wine. (Aesch. _Eumenides_, 728.) As the allusion would doubtless be clear to the Greek audience, I have added a mention of wine which is not in the Greek. Libations to the Elder Gods, such as the Fates and Eumenides, had to be "wineless." Historically this probably means that the worship dates from a time before wine was used in Greece. P. 4, l. 22, The stain of death must not come nigh My radiance.]--Compare Artemis in the last scene of the _Hippolytus_. The presence of a dead body would be a pollution to Apollo, though that of Thánatos (Death) himself seems not to be so. It is rather Thánatos who is dazzled and blinded by Apollo, like an owl or bat in the sunlight. P. 5, l. 43, Rob me of my second prey.]--"You first cheated me of Admetus, and now you cheat me of his substitute." P. 6, l. 59, The rich would buy, etc.]--Here and throughout this difficult little dialogue I follow the readings of my own text in the _Bibliotheca Oxoniensis_. P. 7, l. 74, To lay upon her hair my sword.]--As the sacrificing priest cut off a lock of hair from the victim's head before the actual sacrifice. P. 8, l. 77, Chorus.]--The Chorus consists of citizens, probably Elders, of the city of Pherae. Dr. Verrall has rightly pointed out that there is some general dissatisfaction in the town at Admetus's behaviour (l. 210 ff.). These citizens come to mourn with Admetus out of old friendship, though they do not altogether defend him. The Chorus is very drastically broken up into so many separate persons conversing with one another; the treatment in the _Rhesus_ is similar but even bolder. See _Rhesus_, pp. 28-31, 37-42. Cf. also the entrance-choruses of the _Trojan Women_ (pp. 19-23) and the _Medea_ (pp. 10-13); and ll. 872 ff., 889 ff., pp. 50, 51, below. Instead of assigning the various lines definitely to First, Second, Third Citizen, and so on, I have put a "paragraphus" (--), the ancient Greek sign for indicating a new speaker. P. 8, l. 82, Pelias' daughter.]--_i.e._ Alcestis. P. 8, l. 92, Paian.]--The Healer. The word survives chiefly as a cry for help and as an epithet or title of Apollo or Asclepios. "Paian," Latin Paean, is also a cry of victory; but the relation of the two meanings is not quite made out. (Pronounce rather like "Pah-yan.") Cf. l. 220. P. 9, l. 112, To wander o'er leagues of land.]--You could sometimes save a sick person by appealing to an oracle, such as that of Apollo in Lycia or of Zeus Ammon in the Libyan desert; but now no sacrifice will help. Only Asclepios, were he still on earth, might have helped us. (See on the Prologue.) P. 12, l. 150, 'Fore God she dies high-hearted.]--What impresses the Elder is the calm and deliberate way in which Alcestis faces these preparations. P. 12, l. 162, Before the Hearth-Fire.]--Hestia, the hearth-fire, was a goddess, the Latin Vesta, and is addressed as "Mother." It is characteristic in Alcestis to think chiefly about happy marriages for the children. P. 12, l. 182, Happier perhaps, more true she cannot be.]--A famous line and open to parody. Cf. Aristophanes, _Knights_, 1251 ("Another wear this crown instead of me, Happier perhaps; worse thief he cannot be"). And see on l. 367 below. P. 15, l. 228, Hearts have bled.]--People have committed suicide for less than this. P. 16, l. 244, O Sun.]--Alcestis has come out to see the Sun and Sky for the last time and say good-bye to them. It is a rite or practice often mentioned in Greek poetry. Her beautiful wandering lines about Charon and his boat are the more natural because she is not dying from any disease but is being mysteriously drawn away by the Powers of Death. P. 16, l. 252, A boat, two-oared.]--She sees Charon, the boatman who ferried the souls of the dead across the river Styx. P. 17, l. 259, Drawing, drawing.]--The creature whom she sees drawing her to "the palaces of the dead" is certainly not Charon, who had no wings, but was like an old boatman in a peasant's cap and sleeveless tunic; nor can he be Hades, the throned King to whose presence she must eventually go. Apparently, therefore, he must be Thanatos, whom we have just seen on the stage. He was evidently supposed to be invisible to ordinary human eyes. P. 18, l. 280, Alcestis's speech.]--Great simplicity and sincerity are the keynotes of this fine speech. Alcestis does not make light of her sacrifice: she enjoyed her life and values it; she wishes one of the old people had died instead; she is very earnest that Admetus shall not marry again, chiefly for the children's sake, but possibly also from some little shadow of jealousy. A modern dramatist would express all this, if at all, by a scene or a series of scenes of conversation; Euripides always uses the long self-revealing speech. Observe how little romantic love there is in Alcestis, though Admetus is full of it. See Preface, pp. xiii, xiv. Pp. 19, 20, l. 328 ff., Admetus's speech.]--If the last speech made us know Alcestis, this makes us know Admetus fully as well. At one time the beauty and passion of it almost make us forget its ultimate hollowness; at another this hollowness almost makes us lose patience with its beautiful language. In this state of balance the touch of satire in l. 338 f. ("My mother I will know no more," etc.), and the fact that he speaks immediately after the complete sincerity of Alcestis, conspire to weigh down the scale against Admetus. There can be no doubt that he means, and means passionately, all that he says. Only he could not quite manage to die when it was not strictly necessary. P. 20, l. 355, If Orpheus' voice were mine.]--The bard and prophet, Orpheus, went down to the dead to win back his wife, Eurydice. Hades and Persephonê, spell-bound by his music, granted his prayer that Eurydicê should return to the light, on condition that he should go before her, harping, and should never look back to see if she was following. Just at the end of the journey he looked back, and she vanished. The story is told with overpowering beauty in Vergil's fourth Georgic. P. 21, l. 367, Oh, not in death from thee Divided.]--Parodied in Aristophanes' _Archarnians_ 894, where it is addressed to an eel, and the second line ends "in a beet-root fricassee." See on l. 182. P. 23, l. 393 ff., The Little Boy's speech.]--Classical Greek sculpture and vase-painting tended to represent children not like children but like diminutive men; and something of the sort is true of Greek tragedy. The stately tragic convention has in the main to be maintained; the child must speak a language suited for heroes, or at least for high poetry. The quality of childishness has to be indicated by a word or so of child-language delicately admitted amid the stateliness. Here we have [Greek: maia], something like "mummy," at the beginning, and [Greek: neossos], "chicken" or "little bird," at the end. Otherwise most of the language is in the regular tragic diction, and some of it doubtless seems to us unsuitable for a child. If Milton had had to make a child speak in _Paradise Lost_, what sort of diction would he have given it? The success or ill-success of such an attempt as this to combine the two styles, the heroic and the childlike, depends on questions of linguistic tact, and can hardly be judged with any confidence by foreigners. But I think we can see Euripides here, as in other places, reaching out at an effect which was really beyond the resources of his art, and attaining a result which, though clearly imperfect, is strangely moving. He gets great effects from the use of children in several tragedies, though he seldom lets them speak. They speak in the _Medea_, the _Andromache_, and _Suppliants_, and are mute figures in the _Trojan Women, Hecuba, Heracles_, and _Iphigenia in Aulis_. We may notice that where his children do speak, they speak only in lyrics, never in ordinary dialogue. This is very significant, and clearly right. The breaking-down of the child seems to string Admetus to self-control again. P. 25, l. 428, Ye chariot-lords.]--The plain of Thessaly was famous for its cavalry. P. 25, l. 436 ff., Chorus.]--The "King black-browed" is, of course, Hades; the "grey hand at the helm and oar," Charon; the "Tears that Well," the more that spreads out from Acheron, the River of _Achê_ or Sorrows. P. 25, l. 445 ff. Alcestis shall be celebrated--and no doubt worshipped-- at certain full-moon feasts in Athens and Sparta, especially at the Carneia, a great Spartan festival held at the full moon in the month Carneios (August-September). Who the ancient hero Carnos or Carneios was is not very clearly stated by the tradition; but at any rate he was killed, and the feast was meant to placate and perhaps to revive him. Resurrection is apt to be a feature of both moon-goddesses and vegetation spirits. P. 27, l. 476, Entrance of Heracles.]--Generally, in the tragic convention, each character that enters either announces himself or is announced by some one on the stage; but the figure of Heracles with his club and lion-skin was so well known that his identity could be taken for granted. The Leader at once addresses him by name. P. 27, l. 481, The Argive King.]--It was the doom of Heracles, from before his birth, to be the servant of a worser man. His master proved to be Eurystheus, King of Tiryns or Argos, who was his kinsman, and older by a day. See _Iliad_ T 95 ff. Note the heroic quality of Heracles's answer in l. 491. It does not occur to him to think of reward for himself. P. 27, l. 483, Diomede of Thrace.]--This man, distinguished in legend from the Diomede of the _Iliad_, was a savage king who threw wayfarers to his man-eating horses. Such horses are not mere myths; horses have often been trained to fight with their teeth, like carnivora, for war purposes. Diomêdes was a son of Arês, the War-god or Slayer, as were the other wild tyrants mentioned just below, Lycâon, the Wolf-hero, and Cycnus, the Swan. P. 30, l. 511, Right welcome were she: _i.e._ Joy.]--"Joy would be a strange visitor to me, but I know you mean kindly." P. 30, l. 518 ff., Not thy wife? 'Tis not Alcestis?]--The rather elaborate misleading of Heracles, without any direct lie, depends partly on the fact that the Greek word [Greek: gynae]; means both "woman" and "wife."--The woman, not of kin with Admetus but much loved in the house, who has lived there since her father's death left her an orphan, is of course Alcestis, but Heracles, misled by Admetus's first answers, supposes it is some dependant to whom the King happens to be attached. He naturally proposes to go away, but, with much reluctance, allows himself to be over-persuaded by Admetus. He had other friends in Thessaly, but the next castle would probably be several miles off. The guest-chambers of the castle are apparently in a separate building with a connecting passage. As to Admetus's motive, we must remember that the entertaining of Heracles is a datum of the story in its simplest form. See Preface, pp. xiv, xv. In Euripides, Admetus is perhaps actuated by a mixture of motives, real kindness, pride in his ancestral hospitality, and a little vanity. He likes having the great Son of Zeus for a friend, and he has never yet turned any one from his doors. Euripides passes no distinct judgment on this act of Admetus. The Leader in the dialogue blames him ("Art thou mad?") and so does Heracles hereafter, p. 56. But the Chorus glorifies his deed in a very delightful lyric. Perhaps this indicates the judgment we are meant to pass upon it. On the plane of common sense it was doubtless all wrong, but on that of imaginative poetry it was magnificent. P. 35, 11. 569-605, Chorus.]--Apollo, worshipped as a shepherd god and a singer, harper, piper, etc. ("song-changer"), had been himself a stranger in this "House that loved the stranger": hence its great reward. Othrys is the end of the mountain range to the south of Pherae; Lake Boibeïs was just across the narrow end of the plain to the north-east, beyond it came Mt. Pelion and the steep harbourless coast. Up to the north-west the plain of Thessaly stretched far away towards the Molossian mountains. The wild beasts gathered round Apollo as they did round Orpheus ("There where Orpheus harped of old, And the trees awoke and knew him, And the wild things gathered to him, As he piped amid the broken Glens his music manifold."--_Bacchae_, p. 35). P. 37, l. 614, Scene with Pherês.]--Pherês is in tradition the "eponymous hero" of Pherae, _i.e._ the mythical person who is supposed to have given his name to the town. It is only in this play that he has any particular character. The scene gives the reader a shock, but is a brilliant piece of satirical comedy, with a good deal of pathos in it, too. The line (691) [Greek: chaireis horon phos, patera d' ou chairein dokeis]; ("Thou lovest the light, thinkest thou thy father loves it not?") seems to me one of the most characteristic in Euripides. It has a peculiar mordant beauty in its absolutely simple language, and one cannot measure the intensity of feeling that may be behind it. Pheres shows great power of fight, yet one feels his age and physical weakness. See Preface, p. xvi. P. 40, l. 713 ff. The quick thrust and parry are sometimes hard to follow in reading, though in acting the sense would be plain enough. Admetus cries angrily, "Oh, live a longer life than Zeus!" "Is that a curse?" says Pheres; "are you cursing because nobody does you any harm?" (_i.e_. since you clearly have nothing else to curse for). Admetus: "On the contrary I blessed you; I knew you were greedy of life." Pheres: "_I_ greedy? It is _you_, I believe, that Alcestis is dying for." P. 42, l. 732. Acastus was Alcestis's brother, son of Pelias. P. 43, l. 747. It is rare in Greek tragedy for the Chorus to leave the stage altogether in the middle of a play. But they do so, for example, in the _Ajax_ of Sophocles. Ajax is lost, and the Sailors who form the Chorus go out to look for him; when they are gone the scene is supposed to shift and Ajax enters alone, arranging his own death. This very effective scene of the revelling Heracles is to be explained, I think, by the Satyr-play tradition. See Preface. P. 45, ll. 782-785. There are four lines rhyming in the Greek here; an odd and slightly drunken effect. P. 46, l. 805 ff., A woman dead, of no one's kin: why grieve so much?]-- Heracles is somewhat "shameless," as a Greek would say; he had much more delicacy when he was sober. P. 48, l. 837 ff. A fine speech, leaving one in doubt whether it is the outburst of a real hero or the vapouring of a half-drunken man. Just the effect intended. Electryon was a chieftain of Tiryns. His daughter, Alcmênê, the Tirynthian _Korê_ or Earth-maiden, was beloved of Zeus, or, as others put it, was chosen by Zeus to be the mother of the Deliverer of mankind whom he was resolved to beget. She was married to Amphitryon of Thebes. P. 49, l. 860 ff. If Heracles set out straight to the grave and Admetus with the procession was returning from the grave, how was it they did not meet? The answer is that Attic drama seldom asked such questions. Pp. 49-54, ll. 861-961. This Threnos, or lamentation scene, seems to our minds a little long. We must remember (1) that a Tragedy _is_ a Threnos--a _Trauerspiel_--and, however much it develops in the direction of a mere entertainment, the Threnos-element is of primary importance. (2) This scene has two purposes to serve; first to illustrate the helpless loneliness of Admetus when he returns to his empty house, and secondly the way in which remorse works in his mind, till in ll. 935-961 he makes public confession that he has done wrong. For both purposes one needs the illusion of a long lapse of time. P. 53, l. 945 ff., The floor unswept.]--Probably the floor really would be unswept in the house of a primitive Thessalian chieftain whose wife was dead and her place unfilled; but I doubt if the point would have been mentioned so straightforwardly in a real tragedy. Pp. 54-55, l. 966 ff., That which Needs Must Be.]--Ananke or Necessity.-- Orphic rune.]--The charms inscribed by Orpheus on certain tablets in Thrace. Orphic literature and worship had a strong magical element in them. P. 55, l. 995 ff., A grave-mound of the dead.]--Every existing Greek tragedy has somewhere in it a taboo grave--a grave which is either worshipped, or specially avoided or somehow magical. We may conjecture from this passage that there was in the time of Euripides a sacred tomb near Pherae, which received worship and had the story told about it that she who lay there had died for her husband. Pp. 56-67, ll. 1008-end. This last scene must have been exceedingly difficult to compose, and some critics have thought it ineffective or worse. To me it seems brilliantly conceived and written, though of course it needs to be read with the imagination strongly at work. One must never forget the silent and veiled Woman on whom the whole scene centres. I have tried conjecturally to indicate the main lines of her acting, but, of course, others may read it differently. To understand Heracles in this scene, one must first remember the traditional connexion of Satyrs (and therefore of satyric heroes) with the re-awakening of the dead Earth in spring and the return of human souls to their tribe. Dionysus was, of all the various Kouroi, the one most widely connected with resurrection ideas, and the Satyrs are his attendant daemons, who dance magic dances at the Return to Life of Semele or Persephone. And Heracles himself, in certain of his ritual aspects, has similar functions. See J.E. Harrison, _Themis_, pp. 422 f. and 365 ff., or my _Four Stages of Greek Religion_, pp. 46 f. This tradition explains, to start with, what Heracles--and this particular sort of revelling Heracles--has to do in a resurrection scene. Heracles bringing back the dead is a datum of the saga. There remain then the more purely dramatic questions about our poet's treatment of the datum. Why, for instance, does Heracles mystify Admetus with the Veiled Woman? To break the news gently, or to retort his own mystification upon him? I think, the latter. Admetus had said that "a woman" was dead; Heracles says: "All right: here is 'a woman' whom I want you to look after." Again, what are the feelings of Admetus himself? First, mere indignation and disgust at the utterly tactless proposal: then, I think, in 1061 ff. ("I must walk with care" ... end of speech), a strange discovery about himself which amazes and humiliates him. As he looks at the woman he finds himself feeling how exactly like Alcestis she is, and then yearning towards her, almost falling in love with her. A most beautiful and poignant touch. In modern language one would say that his subconscious nature feels Alcestis there and responds emotionally to her presence; his conscious nature, believing the woman to be a stranger, is horrified at his own apparent baseness and inconstancy. P. 57, l. 1051, Where in my castle, etc.]--The castle is divided into two main parts: a public _megaron_ or great hall where the men live during; the day and sleep at night, and a private region, ruled by the queen and centring in the _thalamos_ or royal bed-chamber. If the new woman were taken into this "harem," even if Admetus never spoke to her, the world outside would surmise the worst and consider him dishonoured. P. 66, l. 1148, Be righteous to thy guest, As he would have thee be.]-- Does this mean "Go on being hospitable, as you have been," or "Learn after this not to take liberties with other guests"? It is hard to say. P. 66, l. 1152, The feasting day shall surely come; now I must needs away.]--A fine last word for Heracles. We have seen him feasting, but that makes a small part in his life. His main life is to perform labour upon labour in service to his king. Euripides occasionally liked this method of ending a play, not with a complete finish (Greek _catastrophê_), but with the opening of a door into some further vista of endurance or adventure. The _Trojan Women_ ends by the women going out to the Greek ships to begin a life of slavery; the _Rhesus_ with the doomed army of Trojans gathering bravely for an attack which we know will be disastrous. Here we have the story finished for Admetus and Alcestis, but no rest for Heracles. See the note at the end of my _Trojan Women_. THE END # Project Gutenberg #14322 THE ELECTRA OF EURIPIDES TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH RHYMING VERSE WITH EXPLANATORY NOTES BY GILBERT MURRAY, LL.D., D.LITT. REGIUS PROFESSOR OF GREEK IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD FORTY-SECOND THOUSAND LONDON: GEORGE ALLEN & UNWIN LTD RUSKIN HOUSE, 40 MUSEUM STREET, W.C.1 _First Edition, November_ 1905 _Reprinted, November_ 1906 " _February_ 1908 " _March_ 1910 " _December_ 1910 " _February_ 1913 " _April_ 1914 " _June_ 1916 " _November_ 1919 " _April_ 1921 " _January_ 1923 " _May_ 1925 " _August_ 1927 " _January_ 1929 _(All rights reserved)_ PERFORMED AT THE COURT THEATRE, LONDON IN 1907 _Printed in Great Britain by Unwin Brothers Ltd., Woking_ Introduction[1] The _Electra_ of Euripides has the distinction of being, perhaps, the best abused, and, one might add, not the best understood, of ancient tragedies. "A singular monument of poetical, or rather unpoetical perversity;" "the very worst of all his pieces;" are, for instance, the phrases applied to it by Schlegel. Considering that he judged it by the standards of conventional classicism, he could scarcely have arrived at any different conclusion. For it is essentially, and perhaps consciously, a protest against those standards. So, indeed, is the tragedy of _The Trojan Women_; but on very different lines. The _Electra_ has none of the imaginative splendour, the vastness, the intense poetry, of that wonderful work. It is a close-knit, powerful, well-constructed play, as realistic as the tragic conventions will allow, intellectual and rebellious. Its _psychology_ reminds one of Browning, or even of Ibsen. To a fifth-century Greek all history came in the form of legend; and no less than three extant tragedies, Aeschylus' _Libation-Bearers_ (456 B.C.), Euripides' _Electra_ (413 B.C.), and Sophocles' _Electra_ (date unknown: but perhaps the latest of the three) are based on the particular piece of legend or history now before us. It narrates how the son and daughter of the murdered king, Agamemnon, slew, in due course of revenge, and by Apollo's express command, their guilty mother and her paramour. Homer had long since told the story, as he tells so many, simply and grandly, without moral questioning and without intensity. The atmosphere is heroic. It is all a blood-feud between chieftains, in which Orestes, after seven years, succeeds in slaying his foe Aegisthus, who had killed his father. He probably killed his mother also; but we are not directly told so. His sister may have helped him, and he may possibly have gone mad afterwards; but these painful issues are kept determinedly in the shade. Somewhat surprisingly, Sophocles, although by his time Electra and Clytemnestra had become leading figures in the story and the mother-murder its essential climax, preserves a very similar atmosphere. His tragedy is enthusiastically praised by Schlegel for "the celestial purity, the fresh breath of life and youth, that is diffused over so dreadful a subject." "Everything dark and ominous is avoided. Orestes enjoys the fulness of health and strength. He is beset neither with doubts nor stings of conscience." Especially laudable is the "austerity" with which Aegisthus is driven into the house to receive, according to Schlegel, a specially ignominious death! This combination of matricide and good spirits, however satisfactory to the determined classicist, will probably strike most intelligent readers as a little curious, and even, if one may use the word at all in connection with so powerful a play, undramatic. It becomes intelligible as soon as we observe that Sophocles was deliberately seeking what he regarded as an archaic or "Homeric" style (cf. Jebb, Introd. p. xli.); and this archaism, in its turn, seems to me best explained as a conscious reaction against Euripides' searching and unconventional treatment of the same subject (cf. Wilamowitz in _Hermes_, xviii. pp. 214 ff.). In the result Sophocles is not only more "classical" than Euripides; he is more primitive by far than Aeschylus. For Aeschylus, though steeped in the glory of the world of legend, would not lightly accept its judgment upon religious and moral questions, and above all would not, in that region, play at make-believe. He would not elude the horror of this story by simply not mentioning it, like Homer, or by pretending that an evil act was a good one, like Sophocles. He faces the horror; realises it; and tries to surmount it on the sweep of a great wave of religious emotion. The mother-murder, even if done by a god's command, is a sin; a sin to be expiated by unfathomable suffering. Yet, since the god cannot have commanded evil, it is a duty also. It is a sin that _must_ be committed. Euripides, here as often, represents intellectually the thought of Aeschylus carried a step further. He faced the problem just as Aeschylus did, and as Sophocles did not. But the solution offered by Aeschylus did not satisfy him. It cannot, in its actual details, satisfy any one. To him the mother-murder--like most acts of revenge, but more than most--was a sin and a horror. Therefore it should not have been committed; and the god who enjoined it _did_ command evil, as he had done in a hundred other cases! He is no god of light; he is only a demon of old superstition, acting, among other influences, upon a sore-beset man, and driving him towards a miscalled duty, the horror of which, when done, will unseat his reason. But another problem interests Euripides even more than this. What kind of man was it--above all, what kind of woman can it have been, who would do this deed of mother-murder, not in sudden fury but deliberately, as an act of "justice," after many years? A "sympathetic" hero and heroine are out of the question; and Euripides does not deal in stage villains. He seeks real people. And few attentive readers of this play can doubt that he has found them. The son is an exile, bred in the desperate hopes and wild schemes of exile; he is a prince without a kingdom, always dreaming of his wrongs and his restoration; and driven by the old savage doctrine, which an oracle has confirmed, of the duty and manliness of revenge. He is, as was shown by his later history, a man subject to overpowering impulses and to fits of will-less brooding. Lastly, he is very young, and is swept away by his sister's intenser nature. That sister is the central figure of the tragedy. A woman shattered in childhood by the shock of an experience too terrible for a girl to bear; a poisoned and a haunted woman, eating her heart in ceaseless broodings of hate and love, alike unsatisfied--hate against her mother and stepfather, love for her dead father and her brother in exile; a woman who has known luxury and state, and cares much for them; who is intolerant of poverty, and who feels her youth passing away. And meantime there is her name, on which all legend, if I am not mistaken, insists; she is _A-lektra_, "the Unmated." There is, perhaps, no woman's character in the range of Greek tragedy so profoundly studied. Not Aeschylus' Clytemnestra, not Phaedra nor Medea. One's thoughts can only wander towards two great heroines of "lost" plays, Althaea in the _Meleager_, and Stheneboea in the _Bellerophon_. G.M. [Footnote 1: Most of this introduction is reprinted, by the kind permission of the Editors, from an article in the _Independent Review_ vol. i. No. 4.] ELECTRA CHARACTERS IN THE PLAY CLYTEMNESTRA, _Queen of Argos and Mycenae; widow of Agamemnon_. ELECTRA, _daughter of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra_. ORESTES, _son of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra, now in banishment_. A PEASANT, _husband of Electra_. AN OLD MAN, _formerly servant to Agamemnon_. PYLADES, _son of Strophios, King of Phocis; friend to Orestes_. AEGISTHUS, _usurping King of Argos and Mycenae, now husband of Clytemnestra_. The Heroes CASTOR and POLYDEUCES. CHORUS of Argive Women, with their LEADER. FOLLOWERS of ORESTES; HANDMAIDS of CLYTEMNESTRA. _The Scene is laid in the mountains of Argos. The play was first produced between the years_ 414 _and_ 412 B.C. ELECTRA _The scene represents a hut on a desolate mountain side; the river Inachus is visible in the distance. The time is the dusk of early dawn, before sunrise. The_ PEASANT _is discovered in front of the hut_. PEASANT. Old gleam on the face of the world, I give thee hail, River of Argos land, where sail on sail The long ships met, a thousand, near and far, When Agamemnon walked the seas in war; Who smote King Priam in the dust, and burned The storied streets of Ilion, and returned Above all conquerors, heaping tower and fane Of Argos high with spoils of Eastern slain. So in far lands he prospered; and at home His own wife trapped and slew him. 'Twas the doom Aegisthus wrought, son of his father's foe. Gone is that King, and the old spear laid low That Tantalus wielded when the world was young. Aegisthus hath his queen, and reigns among His people. And the children here alone, Orestes and Electra, buds unblown Of man and womanhood, when forth to Troy He shook his sail and left them--lo, the boy Orestes, ere Aegisthus' hand could fall, Was stolen from Argos--borne by one old thrall, Who served his father's boyhood, over seas Far off, and laid upon King Strophios' knees In Phocis, for the old king's sake. But here The maid Electra waited, year by year, Alone, till the warm days of womanhood Drew nigh and suitors came of gentle blood In Hellas. Then Aegisthus was in fear Lest she be wed in some great house, and bear A son to avenge her father. Close he wrought Her prison in his house, and gave her not To any wooer. Then, since even this Was full of peril, and the secret kiss Of some bold prince might find her yet, and rend Her prison walls, Aegisthus at the end Would slay her. Then her mother, she so wild Aforetime, pled with him and saved her child. Her heart had still an answer for her lord Murdered, but if the child's blood spoke, what word Could meet the hate thereof? After that day Aegisthus thus decreed: whoso should slay The old king's wandering son, should win rich meed Of gold; and for Electra, she must wed With me, not base of blood--in that I stand True Mycenaean--but in gold and land Most poor, which maketh highest birth as naught. So from a powerless husband shall be wrought A powerless peril. Had some man of might Possessed her, he had called perchance to light Her father's blood, and unknown vengeances Risen on Aegisthus yet. Aye, mine she is: But never yet these arms--the Cyprian knows My truth!--have clasped her body, and she goes A virgin still. Myself would hold it shame To abase this daughter of a royal name. I am too lowly to love violence. Yea, Orestes too doth move me, far away, Mine unknown brother! Will he ever now Come back and see his sister bowed so low? Doth any deem me fool, to hold a fair Maid in my room and seek no joy, but spare Her maidenhood? If any such there be, Let him but look within. The fool is he In gentle things, weighing the more and less Of love by his own heart's untenderness. [_As he ceases_ ELECTRA _comes out of the hut. She is in mourning garb, and carries a large pitcher on her head. She speaks without observing the_ PEASANT'S _presence_. ELECTRA. Dark shepherdess of many a golden star, Dost see me, Mother Night? And how this jar Hath worn my earth-bowed head, as forth and fro For water to the hillward springs I go? Not for mere stress of need, but purpose set, That never day nor night God may forget Aegisthus' sin: aye, and perchance a cry Cast forth to the waste shining of the sky May find my father's ear.... The woman bred Of Tyndareus, my mother--on her head Be curses!--from my house hath outcast me; She hath borne children to our enemy; She hath made me naught, she hath made Orestes naught.... [_As the bitterness of her tone increases, the_ PEASANT _comes forward._ PEASANT. What wouldst thou now, my sad one, ever fraught With toil to lighten my toil? And so soft Thy nurture was! Have I not chid thee oft, And thou wilt cease not, serving without end? ELECTRA (_turning to him with impulsive affection_). O friend, my friend, as God might be my friend, Thou only hast not trampled on my tears. Life scarce can be so hard, 'mid many fears And many shames, when mortal heart can find Somewhere one healing touch, as my sick mind Finds thee.... And should I wait thy word, to endure A little for thine easing, yea, or pour My strength out in thy toiling fellowship? Thou hast enough with fields and kine to keep; 'Tis mine to make all bright within the door. 'Tis joy to him that toils, when toil is o'er, To find home waiting, full of happy things. PEASANT. If so it please thee, go thy way. The springs Are not far off. And I before the morn Must drive my team afield, and sow the corn In the hollows.--Not a thousand prayers can gain A man's bare bread, save an he work amain. [ELECTRA _and the_ PEASANT _depart on their several ways. After a few moments there enter stealthily two armed men,_ ORESTES _and_ PYLADES. ORESTES. Thou art the first that I have known in deed True and my friend, and shelterer of my need. Thou only, Pylades, of all that knew, Hast held Orestes of some worth, all through These years of helplessness, wherein I lie Downtrodden by the murderer--yea, and by The murderess, my mother!... I am come, Fresh from the cleansing of Apollo, home To Argos--and my coming no man yet Knoweth--to pay the bloody twain their debt Of blood. This very night I crept alone To my dead father's grave, and poured thereon My heart's first tears and tresses of my head New-shorn, and o'er the barrow of the dead Slew a black lamb, unknown of them that reign In this unhappy land.... I am not fain To pass the city gates, but hold me here Hard on the borders. So my road is clear To fly if men look close and watch my way; If not, to seek my sister. For men say She dwelleth in these hills, no more a maid But wedded. I must find her house, for aid To guide our work, and learn what hath betid Of late in Argos.--Ha, the radiant lid Of Dawn's eye lifteth! Come, friend; leave we now This trodden path. Some worker of the plough, Or serving damsel at her early task Will presently come by, whom we may ask If here my sister dwells. But soft! Even now I see some bondmaid there, her death-shorn brow Bending beneath its freight of well-water. Lie close until she pass; then question her. A slave might help us well, or speak some sign Of import to this work of mine and thine. [_The two men retire into ambush._ ELECTRA _enters, returning from the well._ ELECTRA. Onward, O labouring tread, As on move the years; Onward amid thy tears, O happier dead! Let me remember. I am she, [_Strophe_ 1. Agamemnon's child, and the mother of me Clytemnestra, the evil Queen, Helen's sister. And folk, I ween, That pass in the streets call yet my name Electra.... God protect my shame! For toil, toil is a weary thing, And life is heavy about my head; And thou far off, O Father and King, In the lost lands of the dead. A bloody twain made these things be; One was thy bitterest enemy, And one the wife that lay by thee. Brother, brother, on some far shore [_Antistrophe_ 1. Hast thou a city, is there a door That knows thy footfall, Wandering One? Who left me, left me, when all our pain Was bitter about us, a father slain, And a girl that wept in her room alone. Thou couldst break me this bondage sore, Only thou, who art far away, Loose our father, and wake once more.... Zeus, Zeus, dost hear me pray?... The sleeping blood and the shame and the doom! O feet that rest not, over the foam Of distant seas, come home, come home! What boots this cruse that I carry? [_Strophe_ 2. O, set free my brow! For the gathered tears that tarry Through the day and the dark till now, Now in the dawn are free, Father, and flow beneath The floor of the world, to be As a song in she house of Death: From the rising up of the day They guide my heart alway, The silent tears unshed, And my body mourns for the dead; My cheeks bleed silently, And these bruised temples keep Their pain, remembering thee And thy bloody sleep. Be rent, O hair of mine head! As a swan crying alone Where the river windeth cold, For a loved, for a silent one, Whom the toils of the fowler hold, I cry, Father, to thee, O slain in misery! The water, the wan water, [_Antistrophe_ 2. Lapped him, and his head Drooped in the bed of slaughter Low, as one wearièd; Woe for the edgèd axe, And woe for the heart of hate, Houndlike about thy tracks, O conqueror desolate, From Troy over land and sea, Till a wife stood waiting thee; Not with crowns did she stand, Nor flowers of peace in her hand; With Aegisthus' dagger drawn For her hire she strove, Through shame and through blood alone; And won her a traitor's love. [_As she ceases there enter from right and left the_ CHORUS, _consisting of women of Argos, young and old, in festal dress_. CHORUS. _Some Women._ Child of the mighty dead, [_Strophe_. Electra, lo, my way To thee in the dawn hath sped, And the cot on the mountain grey, For the Watcher hath cried this day: He of the ancient folk, The walker of waste and hill, Who drinketh the milk of the flock; And he told of Hera's will; For the morrow's morrow now They cry her festival, And before her throne shall bow Our damsels all. ELECTRA. Not unto joy, nor sweet Music, nor shining of gold, The wings of my spirit beat. Let the brides of Argos hold Their dance in the night, as of old; I lead no dance; I mark No beat as the dancers sway; With tears I dwell in the dark, And my thought is of tears alway, To the going down of the day. Look on my wasted hair And raiment.... This that I bear, Is it meet for the King my sire, And her whom the King begot? For Troy, that was burned with fire And forgetteth not? CHORUS. _Other Women._ Hera is great!--Ah, come, [_Antistrophe_. Be kind; and my hand shall bring Fair raiment, work of the loom, And many a golden thing, For joyous robe-wearing. Deemest thou this thy woe Shall rise unto God as prayer, Or bend thine haters low? Doth God for thy pain have care? Not tears for the dead nor sighs, But worship and joy divine Shall win thee peace in thy skies, O daughter mine! ELECTRA. No care cometh to God For the voice of the helpless; none For the crying of ancient blood. Alas for him that is gone, And for thee, O wandering one: That now, methinks, in a land Of the stranger must toil for hire, And stand where the poor men stand, A-cold by another's fire, O son of the mighty sire: While I in a beggar's cot On the wrecked hills, changing not, Starve in my soul for food; But our mother lieth wed In another's arms, and blood Is about her bed. LEADER. On all of Greece she wrought great jeopardy, Thy mother's sister, Helen,--and on thee. [ORESTES _and_ PYLADES _move out from their concealment_; ORESTES _comes forward_: PYLADES _beckons to two_ ARMED SERVANTS _and stays with them in the background_. ELECTRA. Woe's me! No more of wailing! Women, flee! Strange armèd men beside the dwelling there Lie ambushed! They are rising from their lair. Back by the road, all you. I will essay The house; and may our good feet save us! ORESTES (_between_ ELECTRA _and the hut_). Stay, Unhappy woman! Never fear my steel. ELECTRA (_in utter panic_). O bright Apollo! Mercy! See, I kneel; Slay me not. ORESTES. Others I have yet to slay Less dear than thou. ELECTRA. Go from me! Wouldst thou lay Hand on a body that is not for thee? ORESTES. None is there I would touch more righteously. ELECTRA. Why lurk'st thou by my house? And why a sword? ORESTES. Stay. Listen! Thou wilt not gainsay my word. ELECTRA. There--I am still. Do what thou wilt with me. Thou art too strong. ORESTES. A word I bear to thee... Word of thy brother. ELECTRA. Oh, friend! More than friend! Living or dead? ORESTES. He lives; so let me send My comfort foremost, ere the rest be heard. ELECTRA. God love thee for the sweetness of thy word! ORESTES. God love the twain of us, both thee and me. ELECTRA. He lives! Poor brother! In what land weareth he His exile? ORESTES. Not one region nor one lot His wasted life hath trod. ELECTRA. He lacketh not For bread? ORESTES. Bread hath he; but a man is weak In exile. ELECTRA. What charge laid he on thee? Speak. ORESTES. To learn if thou still live, and how the storm, Living, hath struck thee. ELECTRA. That thou seest; this form Wasted... ORESTES. Yea, riven with the fire of woe. I sigh to look on thee. ELECTRA. My face; and, lo, My temples of their ancient glory shorn. ORESTES. Methinks thy brother haunts thee, being forlorn; Aye, and perchance thy father, whom they slew... ELECTRA. What should be nearer to me than those two? ORESTES. And what to him, thy brother, half so dear As thou? ELECTRA. His is a distant love, not near At need. ORESTES. But why this dwelling place, this life Of loneliness? ELECTRA (_with sudden bitterness_). Stranger, I am a wife.... O better dead! ORESTES. That seals thy brother's doom! What Prince of Argos...? ELECTRA. Not the man to whom My father thought to give me. ORESTES. Speak; that I May tell thy brother all. ELECTRA. 'Tis there, hard by, His dwelling, where I live, far from men's eyes. ORESTES. Some ditcher's cot, or cowherd's, by its guise! ELECTRA (_struck with shame for her ingratitude_). A poor man; but true-hearted, and to me God-fearing. ORESTES. How? What fear of God hath he? ELECTRA. He hath never held my body to his own. ORESTES. Hath he some vow to keep? Or is it done To scorn thee? ELECTRA. Nay; he only scorns to sin Against my father's greatness. ORESTES. But to win A princess! Doth his heart not leap for pride? ELECTRA. He honoureth not the hand that gave the bride. ORESTES. I see. He trembles for Orestes' wrath? ELECTRA. Aye, that would move him. But beside, he hath A gentle heart. ORESTES. Strange! A good man.... I swear He well shall be requited. ELECTRA. Whensoe'er Our wanderer comes again! ORESTES. Thy mother stays Unmoved 'mid all thy wrong? ELECTRA. A lover weighs More than a child in any woman's heart. ORESTES. But what end seeks Aegisthus, by such art Of shame? ELECTRA. To make mine unborn children low And weak, even as my husband. ORESTES. Lest there grow From thee the avenger? ELECTRA. Such his purpose is: For which may I requite him! ORESTES. And of this Thy virgin life--Aegisthus knows it? ELECTRA. Nay, We speak it not. It cometh not his way. ORESTES. These women hear us. Are they friends to thee? ELECTRA. Aye, friends and true. They will keep faithfully All words of mine and thine. ORESTES (_trying her_). Thou art well stayed With friends. And could Orestes give thee aid In aught, if e'er... ELECTRA. Shame on thee! Seest thou not? Is it not time? ORESTES (_catching her excitement_). How time? And if he sought To slay, how should he come at his desire? ELECTRA. By daring, as they dared who slew his sire! ORESTES. Wouldst thou dare with him, if he came, thou too, To slay her? ELECTRA. Yes; with the same axe that slew My father! ORESTES. 'Tis thy message? And thy mood Unchanging? ELECTRA. Let me shed my mother's blood, And I die happy. ORESTES. God!... I would that now Orestes heard thee here. ELECTRA. Yet, wottest thou, Though here I saw him, I should know him not. ORESTES. Surely. Ye both were children, when they wrought Your parting. ELECTRA. One alone in all this land Would know his face. ORESTES. The thrall, methinks, whose hand Stole him from death--or so the story ran? ELECTRA. He taught my father, too, an old old man Of other days than these. ORESTES. Thy father's grave... He had due rites and tendance? ELECTRA. What chance gave, My father had, cast out to rot in the sun. ORESTES. God, 'tis too much!... To hear of such things done Even to a stranger, stings a man.... But speak, Tell of thy life, that I may know, and seek Thy brother with a tale that must be heard Howe'er it sicken. If mine eyes be blurred, Remember, 'tis the fool that feels not. Aye, Wisdom is full of pity; and thereby Men pay for too much wisdom with much pain. LEADER. My heart is moved as this man's. I would fain Learn all thy tale. Here dwelling on the hills Little I know of Argos and its ills. ELECTRA. If I must speak--and at love's call, God knows, I fear not--I will tell thee all; my woes, My father's woes, and--O, since thou hast stirred This storm of speech, thou bear him this my word-- His woes and shame! Tell of this narrow cloak In the wind; this grime and reek of toil, that choke My breathing; this low roof that bows my head After a king's. This raiment ... thread by thread, 'Tis I must weave it, or go bare--must bring, Myself, each jar of water from the spring. No holy day for me, no festival, No dance upon the green! From all, from all I am cut off. No portion hath my life 'Mid wives of Argos, being no true wife. No portion where the maidens throng to praise Castor--my Castor, whom in ancient days, Ere he passed from us and men worshipped him, They named my bridegroom!-- And she, she!... The grim Troy spoils gleam round her throne, and by each hand Queens of the East, my father's prisoners, stand, A cloud of Orient webs and tangling gold. And there upon the floor, the blood, the old Black blood, yet crawls and cankers, like a rot In the stone! And on our father's chariot The murderer's foot stands glorying, and the red False hand uplifts that ancient staff, that led The armies of the world!... Aye, tell him how The grave of Agamemnon, even now, Lacketh the common honour of the dead; A desert barrow, where no tears are shed, No tresses hung, no gift, no myrtle spray. And when the wine is in him, so men say, Our mother's mighty master leaps thereon, Spurning the slab, or pelteth stone on stone, Flouting the lone dead and the twain that live: "Where is thy son Orestes? Doth he give Thy tomb good tendance? Or is all forgot?" So is he scorned because he cometh not.... O Stranger, on my knees, I charge thee, tell This tale, not mine, but of dumb wrongs that swell Crowding--and I the trumpet of their pain, This tongue, these arms, this bitter burning brain; These dead shorn locks, and he for whom they died! His father slew Troy's thousands in their pride; He hath but one to kill.... O God, but one! Is he a man, and Agamemnon's son? LEADER. But hold: is this thy husband from the plain, His labour ended, hasting home again? _Enter the_ PEASANT. PEASANT. Ha, who be these? Strange men in arms before My house! What would they at this lonely door? Seek they for me?--Strange gallants should not stay A woman's goings. ELECTRA. Friend and helper!--Nay, Think not of any evil. These men be Friends of Orestes, charged with words for me!... Strangers, forgive his speech. PEASANT. What word have they Of him? At least he lives and sees the day! ELECTRA. So fares their tale--and sure I doubt it not! PEASANT. And ye two still are living in his thought, Thou and his father? ELECTRA. In his dreams we live. An exile hath small power. PEASANT. And did he give Some privy message? ELECTRA. None: they come as spies For news of me. PEASANT. Thine outward news their eyes Can see; the rest, methinks, thyself will tell. ELECTRA. They have seen all, heard all. I trust them well. PEASANT. Why were our doors not open long ago?-- Be welcome, strangers both, and pass below My lintel. In return for your glad words Be sure all greeting that mine house affords Is yours.--Ye followers, bear in their gear!-- Gainsay me not; for his sake are ye dear That sent you to our house; and though my part In life be low, I am no churl at heart. [_The_ PEASANT _goes to the_ ARMED SERVANTS _at the back, to help them with the baggage._ ORESTES (_aside to_ ELECTRA). Is this the man that shields thy maidenhood Unknown, and will not wrong thy father's blood? ELECTRA. He is called my husband. 'Tis for him I toil. ORESTES. How dark lies honour hid! And what turmoil In all things human: sons of mighty men Fallen to naught, and from ill seed again Good fruit: yea, famine in the rich man's scroll Writ deep, and in poor flesh a lordly soul. As, lo, this man, not great in Argos, not With pride of house uplifted, in a lot Of unmarked life hath shown a prince's grace. [_To the_ PEASANT, _who has returned._ All that is here of Agamemnon's race, And all that lacketh yet, for whom we come, Do thank thee, and the welcome of thy home Accept with gladness.--Ho, men; hasten ye Within!--This open-hearted poverty Is blither to my sense than feasts of gold. Lady, thine husband's welcome makes me bold; Yet would thou hadst thy brother, before all Confessed, to greet us in a prince's hall! Which may be, even yet. Apollo spake The word; and surely, though small store I make Of man's divining, God will fail us not. [ORESTES _and_ PYLADES _go in, following the_ SERVANTS. LEADER. O never was the heart of hope so hot Within me. How? So moveless in time past, Hath Fortune girded up her loins at last? ELECTRA. Now know'st thou not thine own ill furniture, To bid these strangers in, to whom for sure Our best were hardship, men of gentle breed? PEASANT. Nay, if the men be gentle, as indeed I deem them, they will take good cheer or ill With even kindness. ELECTRA. 'Twas ill done; but still-- Go, since so poor thou art, to that old friend Who reared my father. At the realm's last end He dwells, where Tanaos river foams between Argos and Sparta. Long time hath he been An exile 'mid his flocks. Tell him what thing Hath chanced on me, and bid him haste and bring Meat for the strangers' tending.--Glad, I trow, That old man's heart will be, and many a vow Will lift to God, to learn the child he stole From death, yet breathes.--I will not ask a dole From home; how should my mother help me? Nay, I pity him that seeks that door, to say Orestes liveth! PEASANT. Wilt thou have it so? I will take word to the old man. But go Quickly within, and whatso there thou find Set out for them. A woman, if her mind So turn, can light on many a pleasant thing To fill her board. And surely plenishing We have for this one day.--'Tis in such shifts As these, I care for riches, to make gifts To friends, or lead a sick man back to health With ease and plenty. Else small aid is wealth For daily gladness; once a man be done With hunger, rich and poor are all as one. [_The_ PEASANT _goes off to the left_; ELECTRA _goes into the house._ * * * * * CHORUS. O for the ships of Troy, the beat [_Strophe_ 1. Of oars that shimmered Innumerable, and dancing feet Of Nereids glimmered; And dolphins, drunken with the lyre, Across the dark blue prows, like fire, Did bound and quiver, To cleave the way for Thetis' son, Fleet-in-the-wind Achilles, on To war, to war, till Troy be won Beside the reedy river. Up from Euboea's caverns came [_Antistrophe_ 1. The Nereids, bearing Gold armour from the Lords of Flame, Wrought for his wearing: Long sought those daughters of the deep, Up Pelion's glen, up Ossa's steep Forest enchanted, Where Peleus reared alone, afar, His lost sea-maiden's child, the star Of Hellas, and swift help of war When weary armies panted. There came a man from Troy, and told [_Strophe_ 2. Here in the haven, How, orb on orb, to strike with cold The Trojan, o'er that targe of gold, Dread shapes were graven. All round the level rim thereof Perseus, on wingèd feet, above The long seas hied him; The Gorgon's wild and bleeding hair He lifted; and a herald fair, He of the wilds, whom Maia bare, God's Hermes, flew beside him. [_Antistrophe_ 2. But midmost, where the boss rose higher, A sun stood blazing, And wingèd steeds, and stars in choir, Hyad and Pleiad, fire on fire, For Hector's dazing: Across the golden helm, each way, Two taloned Sphinxes held their prey, Song-drawn to slaughter: And round the breastplate ramping came A mingled breed of lion and flame, Hot-eyed to tear that steed of fame That found Pirênê's water. The red red sword with steeds four-yoked [_Epode_. Black-maned, was graven, That laboured, and the hot dust smoked Cloudwise to heaven. Thou Tyndarid woman! Fair and tall Those warriors were, and o'er them all One king great-hearted, Whom thou and thy false love did slay: Therefore the tribes of Heaven one day For these thy dead shall send on thee An iron death: yea, men shall see The white throat drawn, and blood's red spray, And lips in terror parted. [_As they cease, there enters from the left a very old man, bearing a lamb, a wineskin, and a wallet_. OLD MAN. Where is my little Princess? Ah, not now; But still my queen, who tended long ago The lad that was her father.... How steep-set These last steps to her porch! But faint not yet: Onward, ye failing knees and back with pain Bowed, till we look on that dear face again. [_Enter_ ELECTRA. Ah, daughter, is it thou?--Lo, here I am, With gifts from all my store; this suckling lamb Fresh from the ewe, green crowns for joyfulness, And creamy things new-curdled from the press. And this long-storèd juice of vintages Forgotten, cased in fragrance: scant it is, But passing sweet to mingle nectar-wise With feebler wine.--Go, bear them in; mine eyes... Where is my cloak?--They are all blurred with tears. ELECTRA. What ails thine eyes, old friend? After these years Doth my low plight still stir thy memories? Or think'st thou of Orestes, where he lies In exile, and my father? Aye, long love Thou gavest him, and seest the fruit thereof Wasted, for thee and all who love thee! OLD MAN. All Wasted! And yet 'tis that lost hope withal I cannot brook. But now I turned aside To see my master's grave. All, far and wide, Was silence; so I bent these knees of mine And wept and poured drink-offerings from the wine I bear the strangers, and about the stone Laid myrtle sprays. And, child, I saw thereon Just at the censer slain, a fleeced ewe, Deep black, in sacrifice: the blood was new About it: and a tress of bright brown hair Shorn as in mourning, close. Long stood I there And wondered, of all men what man had gone In mourning to that grave.--My child, 'tis none In Argos. Did there come ... Nay, mark me now... Thy brother in the dark, last night, to bow His head before that unadorèd tomb? O come, and mark the colour of it. Come And lay thine own hair by that mourner's tress! A hundred little things make likenesses In brethren born, and show the father's blood. ELECTRA (_trying to mask her excitement and resist the contagion of his_). Old heart, old heart, is this a wise man's mood?... O, not in darkness, not in fear of men, Shall Argos find him, when he comes again, Mine own undaunted ... Nay, and if it were, What likeness could there be? My brother's hair Is as a prince's and a rover's, strong With sunlight and with strife: not like the long Locks that a woman combs.... And many a head Hath this same semblance, wing for wing, tho' bred Of blood not ours.... 'Tis hopeless. Peace, old man. OLD MAN. The footprints! Set thy foot by his, and scan The track of frame and muscles, how they fit! ELECTRA. That ground will take no footprint! All of it Is bitter stone.... It hath?... And who hath said There should be likeness in a brother's tread And sister's? His is stronger every way. OLD MAN. But hast thou nothing...? If he came this day And sought to show thee, is there no one sign Whereby to know him?... Stay; the robe was thine, Work of thy loom, wherein I wrapt him o'er That night and stole him through the murderers' door. ELECTRA. Thou knowest, when Orestes was cast out I was a child.... If I did weave some clout Of raiment, would he keep the vesture now He wore in childhood? Should my weaving grow As his limbs grew?... 'Tis lost long since. No more! O, either 'twas some stranger passed, and shore His locks for very ruth before that tomb: Or, if he found perchance, to seek his home, Some spy... OLD MAN. The strangers! Where are they? I fain Would see them, aye, and bid them answer plain... ELECTRA. Here at the door! How swift upon the thought! _Enter_ ORESTES _and_ PYLADES. OLD MAN. High-born: albeit for that I trust them not. The highest oft are false.... Howe'er it be, [_Approaching them_. I bid the strangers hail! ORESTES. All hail to thee, Greybeard!--Prithee, what man of all the King Trusted of old, is now this broken thing? ELECTRA. 'Tis he that trained my father's boyhood. ORESTES. How? And stole from death thy brother? Sayest thou? ELECTRA. This man was his deliverer, if it be Deliverance. ORESTES. How his old eye pierceth me, As one that testeth silver and alloy! Sees he some likeness here? ELECTRA. Perchance 'tis joy, To see Orestes' comrade, that he feels. ORESTES. None dearer.--But what ails the man? He reels Dizzily back. ELECTRA. I marvel. I can say No more. OLD MAN (_in a broken voice_). Electra, mistress, daughter, pray! Pray unto God! ELECTRA. Of all the things I crave, The thousand things, or all that others have, What should I pray for? OLD MAN. Pray thine arms may hold At last this treasure-dream of more than gold God shows us! ELECTRA. God, I pray thee!... Wouldst thou more? OLD MAN. Gaze now upon this man, and bow before Thy dearest upon earth! ELECTRA. I gaze on thee! O, hath time made thee mad? OLD MAN. Mad, that I see Thy brother? ELECTRA. My ... I know not what thou say'st: I looked not for it... OLD MAN. I tell thee, here confessed Standeth Orestes, Agamemnon's son! ELECTRA. A sign before I trust thee! O, but one! How dost thou know...? OLD MAN. There, by his brow, I see The scar he made, that day he ran with thee Chasing thy fawn, and fell. ELECTRA (_in a dull voice_). A scar? 'Tis so. I see a scar. OLD MAN. And fearest still to throw Thine arms round him thou lovest? ELECTRA. O, no more! Thy sign hath conquered me.... (_throwing herself into_ ORESTES' _arms_). At last, at last! Thy face like light! And do I hold thee fast, Unhoped for? ORESTES. Yea, at last! And I hold thee. ELECTRA. I never knew... ORESTES. I dreamed not. ELECTRA. Is it he, Orestes? ORESTES. Thy defender, yea, alone To fight the world! Lo, this day have I thrown A net, which once unbroken from the sea Drawn home, shall ... O, and it must surely be! Else men shall know there is no God, no light In Heaven, if wrong to the end shall conquer right. CHORUS. Comest thou, comest thou now, Chained by the years and slow, O Day long sought? A light on the mountains cold Is lit, yea, a fire burneth, 'Tis the light of one that turneth From roamings manifold, Back out of exile old To the house that knew him not. Some spirit hath turned our way, Victory visible, Walking at thy right hand, Belovèd; O lift this day Thine arms, thy voice, as a spell; And pray for thy brother, pray, Threading the perilous land, That all be well! ORESTES. Enough; this dear delight is mine at last Of thine embracing; and the hour comes fast When we shall stand again as now we stand, And stint not.--Stay, Old Man: thou, being at hand At the edge of time, advise me, by what way Best to requite my father's murderers. Say, Have I in Argos any still to trust; Or is the love, once borne me, trod in dust, Even as my fortunes are? Whom shall I seek? By day or night? And whither turn, to wreak My will on them that hate us? Say. OLD MAN. My son, In thine adversity, there is not one Will call thee friend. Nay, that were treasure-trove, A friend to share, not faltering from love, Fair days and foul the same. Thy name is gone Forth to all Argos, as a thing o'erthrown And dead. Thou hast not left one spark to glow With hope in one friend's heart! Hear all, and know: Thou hast God's fortune and thine own right hand, Naught else, to conquer back thy fatherland. ORESTES. The deed, the deed! What must we do? OLD MAN. Strike down Aegisthus ... and thy mother. ORESTES. 'Tis the crown My race is run for. But how find him? OLD MAN. Not Within the city walls, however hot Thy spirit. ORESTES. Ha! With watchers doth he go Begirt, and mailèd pikemen? OLD MAN. Even so: He lives in fear of thee, and night nor day Hath slumber. ORESTES. That way blocked!--'Tis thine to say What next remains. OLD MAN. I will; and thou give ear. A thought has found me! ORESTES. All good thoughts be near, For thee to speak and me to understand! OLD MAN. But now I saw Aegisthus, close at hand As here I journeyed. ORESTES. That good word shall trace My path for me! Thou saw'st him? In what place? OLD MAN. Out on the pastures where his horses stray. ORESTES. What did he there so far?--A gleam of day Crosseth our darkness. OLD MAN. 'Twas a feast, methought, Of worship to the wild-wood nymphs he wrought. ORESTES. The watchers of men's birth? Is there a son New born to him, or doth he pray for one That cometh? [_Movement of_ ELECTRA. OLD MAN. More I know not; he had there A wreathed ox, as for some weighty prayer. ORESTES. What force was with him? Not his serfs alone? OLD MAN. No Argive lord was there; none but his own Household. ORESTES. Not any that aught know my face, Or guess? OLD MAN. Thralls, thralls; who ne'er have seen thy face. ORESTES. Once I prevail, the thralls will welcome me! OLD MAN. The slaves' way, that; and no ill thing for thee! ORESTES. How can I once come near him? OLD MAN. Walk thy ways Hard by, where he may see thee, ere he slays His sacrifice. ORESTES. How? Is the road so nigh? OLD MAN. He cannot choose but see thee, passing by, And bid thee stay to share the beast they kill. ORESTES. A bitter fellow-feaster, if God will! OLD MAN. And then ... then swift be heart and brain, to see God's chances! ORESTES. Aye. Well hast thou counselled me. But ... where is she? OLD MAN. In Argos now, I guess; But goes to join her husband, ere the press Of the feast. ORESTES. Why goeth not my mother straight Forth at her husband's side? OLD MAN. She fain will wait Until the gathered country-folk be gone. ORESTES. Enough! She knows what eyes are turned upon Her passings in the land! OLD MAN. Aye, all men hate The unholy woman. ORESTES. How then can I set My snare for wife and husband in one breath? ELECTRA (_coming forward_). Hold! It is I must work our mother's death. ORESTES. If that be done, I think the other deed Fortune will guide. ELECTRA. This man must help our need, One friend alone for both. OLD MAN. He will, he will! Speak on. What cunning hast thou found to fill Thy purpose? ELECTRA. Get thee forth, Old Man, and quick Tell Clytemnestra ... tell her I lie sick, New-mothered of a man-child. OLD MAN. Thou hast borne A son! But when? ELECTRA. Let this be the tenth morn. Till then a mother stays in sanctity, Unseen. OLD MAN. And if I tell her, where shall be The death in this? ELECTRA. That word let her but hear, Straight she will seek me out! OLD MAN. The queen! What care Hath she for thee, or pain of thine? ELECTRA. She will; And weep my babe's low station! OLD MAN. Thou hast skill To know her, child; say on. ELECTRA. But bring her here, Here to my hand; the rest will come. OLD MAN. I swear, Here at the gate she shall stand palpable! ELECTRA. The gate: the gate that leads to me and Hell. OLD MAN. Let me but see it, and I die content. ELECTRA. First, then, my brother: see his steps be bent... OLD MAN. Straight yonder, where Aegisthus makes his prayer! ELECTRA. Then seek my mother's presence, and declare My news. OLD MAN. Thy very words, child, as tho' spoke From thine own lips! ELECTRA. Brother, thine hour is struck. Thou standest in the van of war this day. ORESTES (_rousing himself_). Aye, I am ready.... I will go my way, If but some man will guide me. OLD MAN. Here am I, To speed thee to the end, right thankfully. ORESTES (_turning as he goes and raising his hands to heaven_). Zeus of my sires, Zeus of the lost battle, ELECTRA. Have pity; have pity; we have earned it well! OLD MAN. Pity these twain, of thine own body sprung! ELECTRA. O Queen o'er Argive altars, Hera high, ORESTES. Grant us thy strength, if for the right we cry. OLD MAN. Strength to these twain, to right their father's wrong! ELECTRA. O Earth, deep Earth, to whom I yearn in vain, ORESTES. And deeper thou, O father darkly slain, OLD MAN. Thy children call, who love thee: hearken thou! ORESTES. Girt with thine own dead armies, wake, O wake! ELECTRA. With all that died at Ilion for thy sake ... OLD MAN. And hate earth's dark defilers; help us now! ELECTRA. Dost hear us yet, O thou in deadly wrong, Wronged by my mother? OLD MAN. Child, we stay too long. He hears; be sure he hears! ELECTRA. And while he hears, I speak this word for omen in his ears: "Aegisthus dies, Aegisthus dies."... Ah me, My brother, should it strike not him, but thee, This wrestling with dark death, behold, I too Am dead that hour. Think of me as one true, Not one that lives. I have a sword made keen For this, and shall strike deep. I will go in And make all ready. If there come from thee Good tidings, all my house for ecstasy Shall cry; and if we hear that thou art dead, Then comes the other end!--Lo, I have said. ORESTES. I know all, all. ELECTRA. Then be a man to-day! [ORESTES _and the_ OLD MAN _depart_. O Women, let your voices from this fray Flash me a fiery signal, where I sit, The sword across my knees, expecting it. For never, though they kill me, shall they touch My living limbs!--I know my way thus much. [_She goes into the house_. * * * * * CHORUS. When white-haired folk are met [_Strophe_. In Argos about the fold, A story lingereth yet, A voice of the mountains old, That tells of the Lamb of Gold: A lamb from a mother mild, But the gold of it curled and beat; And Pan, who holdeth the keys of the wild, Bore it to Atreus' feet: His wild reed pipes he blew, And the reeds were filled with peace, And a joy of singing before him flew, Over the fiery fleece: And up on the basèd rock, As a herald cries, cried he: "Gather ye, gather, O Argive folk, The King's Sign to see, The sign of the blest of God, For he that hath this, hath all!" Therefore the dance of praise they trod In the Atreïd brethren's hall. They opened before men's eyes [_Antistrophe_. That which was hid before, The chambers of sacrifice, The dark of the golden door, And fires on the altar floor. And bright was every street, And the voice of the Muses' tree. The carven lotus, was lifted sweet; When afar and suddenly, Strange songs, and a voice that grew: "Come to your king, ye folk! Mine, mine, is the Golden Ewe!" 'Twas dark Thyestes spoke. For, lo, when the world was still, With his brother's bride he lay, And won her to work his will, And they stole the Lamb away! Then forth to the folk strode he, And called them about his fold, And showed that Sign of the King to be, The fleece and the horns of gold. Then, then, the world was changed; [_Strophe_ 2. And the Father, where they ranged, Shook the golden stars and glowing, And the great Sun stood deranged In the glory of his going. Lo, from that day forth, the East Bears the sunrise on his breast, And the flaming Day in heaven Down the dim ways of the west Driveth, to be lost at even. The wet clouds to Northward beat; And Lord Ammon's desert seat Crieth from the South, unslaken, For the dews that once were sweet, For the rain that God hath taken. 'Tis a children's tale, that old [_Antistrophe_ 2. Shepherds on far hills have told; And we reck not of their telling, Deem not that the Sun of gold Ever turned his fiery dwelling, Or beat backward in the sky, For the wrongs of man, the cry Of his ailing tribes assembled, To do justly, ere they die! Once, men told the tale, and trembled; Fearing God, O Queen: whom thou Hast forgotten, till thy brow With old blood is dark and daunted. And thy brethren, even now, Walk among the stars, enchanted. LEADER. Ha, friends, was that a voice? Or some dream sound Of voices shaketh me, as underground God's thunder shuddering? Hark, again, and clear! It swells upon the wind.--Come forth and hear! Mistress, Electra! ELECTRA, _a bare sword in her hand, comes from the house._ ELECTRA. Friends! Some news is brought? How hath the battle ended? LEADER. I know naught. There seemed a cry as of men massacred! ELECTRA. I heard it too. Far off, but still I heard. LEADER. A distant floating voice ... Ah, plainer now! ELECTRA. Of Argive anguish!--Brother, is it thou? LEADER. I know not. Many confused voices cry... ELECTRA. Death, then for me! That answer bids me die. LEADER. Nay, wait! We know not yet thy fortune. Wait! ELECTRA. No messenger from him!--Too late, too late! LEADER. The message yet will come. 'Tis not a thing So light of compass, to strike down a king. _Enter a_ MESSENGER, _running_. MESSENGER. Victory, Maids of Argos, Victory! Orestes ... all that love him, list to me!... Hath conquered! Agamemnon's murderer lies Dead! O give thanks to God with happy cries! ELECTRA. Who art thou? I mistrust thee.... 'Tis a plot! MESSENGER. Thy brother's man. Look well. Dost know me not? ELECTRA. Friend, friend; my terror made me not to see Thy visage. Now I know and welcome thee. How sayst thou? He is dead, verily dead, My father's murderer...? MESSENGER. Shall it be said Once more? I know again and yet again Thy heart would hear. Aegisthus lieth slain! ELECTRA. Ye Gods! And thou, O Right, that seest all, Art come at last?... But speak; how did he fall? How swooped the wing of death?... I crave to hear. MESSENGER. Forth of this hut we set our faces clear To the world, and struck the open chariot road; Then on toward the pasture lands, where stood The great Lord of Mycenae. In a set Garden beside a channelled rivulet, Culling a myrtle garland for his brow, He walked: but hailed us as we passed: "How now, Strangers! Who are ye? Of what city sprung, And whither bound?" "Thessalians," answered young Orestes: "to Alpheüs journeying, With gifts to Olympian Zeus." Whereat the king: "This while, beseech you, tarry, and make full The feast upon my hearth. We slay a bull Here to the Nymphs. Set forth at break of day To-morrow, and 'twill cost you no delay. But come"--and so he gave his hand, and led The two men in--"I must not be gainsaid; Come to the house. Ho, there; set close at hand Vats of pure water, that the guests may stand At the altar's verge, where falls the holy spray." Then quickly spake Orestes: "By the way We cleansed us in a torrent stream. We need No purifying here. But if indeed Strangers may share thy worship, here are we Ready, O King, and swift to follow thee." So spoke they in the midst. And every thrall Laid down the spears they served the King withal, And hied him to the work. Some bore amain The death-vat, some the corbs of hallowed grain; Or kindled fire, and round the fire and in Set cauldrons foaming; and a festal din Filled all the place. Then took thy mother's lord The ritual grains, and o'er the altar poured Its due, and prayed: "O Nymphs of Rock and Mere, With many a sacrifice for many a year, May I and she who waits at home for me, My Tyndarid Queen, adore you. May it be Peace with us always, even as now; and all Ill to mine enemies"--meaning withal Thee and Orestes. Then my master prayed Against that prayer, but silently, and said No word, to win once more his fatherland. Then in the corb Aegisthus set his hand, Took the straight blade, cut from the proud bull's head A lock, and laid it where the fire was red; Then, while the young men held the bull on high, Slew it with one clean gash; and suddenly Turned on thy brother: "Stranger, every true Thessalian, so the story goes, can hew A bull's limbs clean, and tame a mountain steed. Take up the steel, and show us if indeed Rumour speak true," Right swift Orestes took The Dorian blade, back from his shoulders shook His broochèd mantle, called on Pylades To aid him, and waved back the thralls. With ease Heelwise he held the bull, and with one glide Bared the white limb; then stripped the mighty hide From off him, swifter than a runner runs His furlongs, and laid clean the flank. At once Aegisthus stooped, and lifted up with care The ominous parts, and gazed. No lobe was there; But lo, strange caves of gall, and, darkly raised, The portal vein boded to him that gazed Fell visitations. Dark as night his brow Clouded. Then spake Orestes: "Why art thou Cast down so sudden?" "Guest," he cried, "there be Treasons from whence I know not, seeking me. Of all my foes, 'tis Agamemnon's son; His hate is on my house, like war." "Have done!" Orestes cried: "thou fear'st an exile's plot, Lord of a city? Make thy cold heart hot With meat.--Ho, fling me a Thessalian steel! This Dorian is too light. I will unseal The breast of him." He took the heavier blade, And clave the bone. And there Aegisthus stayed, The omens in his hand, dividing slow This sign from that; till, while his head bent low, Up with a leap thy brother flashed the sword, Then down upon his neck, and cleft the cord Of brain and spine. Shuddering the body stood One instant in an agony of blood, And gasped and fell. The henchmen saw, and straight Flew to their spears, a host of them to set Against those twain. But there the twain did stand Unfaltering, each his iron in his hand, Edge fronting edge. Till "Hold," Orestes calls: "I come not as in wrath against these walls And mine own people. One man righteously I have slain, who slew my father. It is I, The wronged Orestes! Hold, and smite me not, Old housefolk of my father!" When they caught That name, their lances fell. And one old man, An ancient in the house, drew nigh to scan His face, and knew him. Then with one accord They crowned thy brother's temples, and outpoured joy and loud songs. And hither now he fares To show the head, no Gorgon, that he bears, But that Aegisthus whom thou hatest! Yea, Blood against blood, his debt is paid this day. [_He goes off to meet the others_--ELECTRA _stands as though stupefied_. CHORUS. Now, now thou shalt dance in our dances, Beloved, as a fawn in the night! The wind is astir for the glances Of thy feet; thou art robed with delight. He hath conquered, he cometh to free us With garlands new-won, More high than the crowns of Alpheüs, Thine own father's son: Cry, cry, for the day that is won! ELECTRA. O Light of the Sun, O chariot wheels of flame, O Earth and Night, dead Night without a name That held me! Now mine eyes are raised to see, And all the doorways of my soul flung free. Aegisthus dead! My father's murderer dead! What have I still of wreathing for the head Stored in my chambers? Let it come forth now To bind my brother's and my conqueror's brow. [_Some garlands are brought out from the house to_ ELECTRA. CHORUS. Go, gather thy garlands, and lay them As a crown on his brow, many-tressed, But our feet shall refrain not nor stay them: 'Tis the joy that the Muses have blest. For our king is returned as from prison, The old king, to be master again, Our belovèd in justice re-risen: With guile he hath slain... But cry, cry in joyance again! [_There enter from the left_ ORESTES _and_ PYLADES, _followed by some thralls_. ELECTRA. O conqueror, come! The king that trampled Troy Knoweth his son Orestes. Come in joy, Brother, and take to bind thy rippling hair My crowns!.... O what are crowns, that runners wear For some vain race? But thou in battle true Hast felled our foe Aegisthus, him that slew By craft thy sire and mine. [_She crowns_ ORESTES. And thou no less, O friend at need, O reared in righteousness, Take, Pylades, this chaplet from my hand. 'Twas half thy battle. And may ye two stand Thus alway, victory-crowned, before my face! [_She crowns_ PYLADES. ORESTES. Electra, first as workers of this grace Praise thou the Gods, and after, if thou will, Praise also me, as chosen to fulfil God's work and Fate's.--Aye, 'tis no more a dream; In very deed I come from slaying him. Thou hast the knowledge clear, but lo, I bring More also. See himself, dead! [_Attendants bring in the body of_ AEGISTHUS _on a bier_. Wouldst thou fling This lord on the rotting earth for beasts to tear? Or up, where all the vultures of the air May glut them, pierce and nail him for a sign Far off? Work all thy will. Now he is thine. ELECTRA. It shames me; yet, God knows, I hunger sore-- ORESTES. What wouldst thou? Speak; the old fear nevermore Need touch thee. ELECTRA. To let loose upon the dead My hate! Perchance to rouse on mine own head The sleeping hate of the world? ORESTES. No man that lives Shall scathe thee by one word. ELECTRA. Our city gives Quick blame; and little love have men for me. ORESTES. If aught thou hast unsaid, sister, be free And speak. Between this man and us no bar Cometh nor stint, but the utter rage of war. [_She goes and stands over the body. A moment's silence_. ELECTRA. Ah me, what have I? What first flood of hate To loose upon thee? What last curse to sate My pain, or river of wild words to flow Bank-high between?... Nothing?... And yet I know There hath not passed one sun, but through the long Cold dawns, over and over, like a song, I have said them--words held back, O, some day yet To flash into thy face, would but the fret Of ancient fear fall loose and let me free. And free I am, now; and can pay to thee At last the weary debt. Oh, thou didst kill My soul within. Who wrought thee any ill, That thou shouldst make me fatherless? Aye, me And this my brother, loveless, solitary? 'Twas thou, didst bend my mother to her shame: Thy weak hand murdered him who led to fame The hosts of Hellas--thou, that never crossed O'erseas to Troy!... God help thee, wast thou lost In blindness, long ago, dreaming, some-wise, She would be true with thee, whose sin and lies Thyself had tasted in my father's place? And then, that thou wert happy, when thy days Were all one pain? Thou knewest ceaselessly Her kiss a thing unclean, and she knew thee A lord so little true, so dearly won! So lost ye both, being in falseness one, What fortune else had granted; she thy curse, Who marred thee as she loved thee, and thou hers... And on thy ways thou heardst men whispering, "Lo, the Queen's husband yonder"--not "the King." And then the lie of lies that dimmed thy brow, Vaunting that by thy gold, thy chattels, Thou Wert Something; which themselves are nothingness. Shadows, to clasp a moment ere they cease. The thing thou art, and not the things thou hast, Abideth, yea, and bindeth to the last Thy burden on thee: while all else, ill-won And sin-companioned, like a flower o'erblown, Flies on the wind away. Or didst them find In women ... Women?... Nay, peace, peace! The blind Could read thee. Cruel wast thou in thine hour, Lord of a great king's house, and like a tower Firm in thy beauty. [_Starting back with a look of loathing_. Ah, that girl-like face! God grant, not that, not that, but some plain grace Of manhood to the man who brings me love: A father of straight children, that shall move Swift on the wings of War. So, get thee gone! Naught knowing how the great years, rolling on, Have laid thee bare, and thy long debt full paid. O vaunt not, if one step be proudly made In evil, that all Justice is o'ercast: Vaunt not, ye men of sin, ere at the last The thin-drawn marge before you glimmereth Close, and the goal that wheels 'twixt life and death. LEADER. Justice is mighty. Passing dark hath been His sin: and dark the payment of his sin. ELECTRA (_with a weary sigh, turning from the body_). Ah me! Go some of you, bear him from sight, That when my mother come, her eyes may light On nothing, nothing, till she know the sword.... [_The body is borne into the hut_. PYLADES _goes with it_. ORESTES (_looking along the road_). Stay, 'tis a new thing! We have still a word To speak... ELECTRA. What? Not a rescue from the town Thou seëst? ORESTES. 'Tis my mother comes: my own Mother, that bare me. [_He takes off his crown_. ELECTRA (_springing, as it were, to life again, and moving where she can see the road_). Straight into the snare! Aye, there she cometh,--Welcome in thy rare Chariot! All welcome in thy brave array! ORESTES. What would we with our mother? Didst thou say Kill her? ELECTRA (_turning on him_). What? Is it pity? Dost thou fear To see thy mother's shape? ORESTES. 'Twas she that bare My body into life. She gave me suck. How can I strike her? ELECTRA. Strike her as she struck Our father! ORESTES (_to himself, brooding_). Phoebus, God, was all thy mind Turned unto darkness? ELECTRA. If thy God be blind, Shalt thou have light? ORESTES (_as before_). Thou, thou, didst bid me kill My mother: which is sin. ELECTRA. How brings it ill To thee, to raise our father from the dust? ORESTES. I was a clean man once. Shall I be thrust From men's sight, blotted with her blood? ELECTRA. Thy blot Is black as death if him thou succour not! ORESTES. Who shall do judgment on me, when she dies? ELECTRA. Who shall do judgment, if thy father lies. Forgotten? ORESTES (_turning suddenly to_ ELECTRA). Stay! How if some fiend of Hell, Hid in God's likeness, spake that oracle? ELECTRA. In God's own house? I trow not. ORESTES. And I trow It was an evil charge! [_He moves away from her._ ELECTRA (_almost despairing_). To fail me now! To fail me now! A coward!--O brother, no! ORESTES. What shall it be, then? The same stealthy blow ... ELECTRA. That slew our father! Courage! thou hast slain Aegisthus. ORESTES. Aye. So be it.--I have ta'en A path of many terrors: and shall do Deeds horrible. 'Tis God will have it so.... Is this the joy of battle, or wild woe? [_He goes into the house._ LEADER. O Queen o'er Argos thronèd high, O Woman, sister of the twain, God's Horsemen, stars without a stain, Whose home is in the deathless sky, Whose glory in the sea's wild pain, Toiling to succour men that die: Long years above us hast thou been, God-like for gold and marvelled power: Ah, well may mortal eyes this hour Observe thy state: All hail, O Queen! _Enter from the right_ CLYTEMNESTRA _on a chariot, accompanied by richly dressed Handmaidens_. CLYTEMNESTRA. Down from the wain, ye dames of Troy, and hold Mine arm as I dismount.... [_Answering_ ELECTRA'S _thought_. The spoils and gold Of Ilion I have sent out of my hall To many shrines. These bondwomen are all I keep in mine own house.... Deemst thou the cost Too rich to pay me for the child I lost-- Fair though they be? ELECTRA. Nay, Mother, here am I Bond likewise, yea, and homeless, to hold high Thy royal arm! CLYTEMNESTRA. Child, the war slaves are here; Thou needst not toil. ELECTRA. What was it but the spear Of war, drove me forth too? Mine enemies Have sacked my father's house, and, even as these, Captives and fatherless, made me their prey. CLYTEMNESTRA. It was thy father cast his child away, A child he might have loved!... Shall I speak out? (_Controlling herself_) Nay; when a woman once is caught about With evil fame, there riseth in her tongue A bitter spirit--wrong, I know! Yet, wrong Or right, I charge ye look on the deeds done; And if ye needs must hate, when all is known, Hate on! What profits loathing ere ye know? My father gave me to be his. 'Tis so. But was it his to kill me, or to kill The babes I bore? Yet, lo, he tricked my will With fables of Achilles' love: he bore To Aulis and the dark ship-clutching shore, He held above the altar-flame, and smote, Cool as one reaping, through the strainèd throat, My white Iphigenia.... Had it been To save some falling city, leaguered in With foemen; to prop up our castle towers, And rescue other children that were ours, Giving one life for many, by God's laws I had forgiven all! Not so. Because Helen was wanton, and her master knew No curb for her: for that, for that, he slew My daughter!--Even then, with all my wrong, No wild beast yet was in me. Nay, for long, I never would have killed him. But he came, At last, bringing that damsel, with the flame Of God about her, mad and knowing all: And set her in my room; and in one wall Would hold two queens!--O wild are woman's eyes And hot her heart. I say not otherwise. But, being thus wild, if then her master stray To love far off, and cast his own away, Shall not her will break prison too, and wend Somewhere to win some other for a friend? And then on us the world's curse waxes strong In righteousness! The lords of all the wrong Must hear no curse!--I slew him. I trod then The only road: which led me to the men He hated. Of the friends of Argos whom Durst I have sought, to aid me to the doom I craved?--Speak if thou wouldst, and fear not me, If yet thou deemst him slain unrighteously. LEADER. Thy words be just, yet shame their justice brings; A woman true of heart should bear all things From him she loves. And she who feels it not, I cannot reason of her, nor speak aught. ELECTRA. Remember, mother, thy last word of grace, Bidding me speak, and fear not, to thy face. CLYTEMNESTRA. So said I truly, child, and so say still. ELECTRA. Wilt softly hear, and after work me ill? CLYTEMNESTRA. Not so, not so. I will but pleasure thee. ELECTRA. I answer then. And, mother, this shall be My prayer of opening, where hangs the whole: Would God that He had made thee clean of soul! Helen and thou--O, face and form were fair, Meet for men's praise; but sisters twain ye were, Both things of naught, a stain on Castor's star, And Helen slew her honour, borne afar In wilful ravishment: but thou didst slay The highest man of the world. And now wilt say 'Twas wrought in justice for thy child laid low At Aulis?... Ah, who knows thee as I know? Thou, thou, who long ere aught of ill was done Thy child, when Agamemnon scarce was gone, Sate at the looking-glass, and tress by tress Didst comb the twined gold in loneliness. When any wife, her lord being far away. Toils to be fair, O blot her out that day As false within! What would she with a cheek So bright in strange men's eyes, unless she seek Some treason? None but I, thy child, could so Watch thee in Hellas: none but I could know Thy face of gladness when our enemies Were strong, and the swift cloud upon thine eyes If Troy seemed falling, all thy soul keen-set Praying that he might come no more!... And yet It was so easy to be true. A king Was thine, not feebler, not in anything Below Aegisthus; one whom Hellas chose For chief beyond all kings. Aye, and God knows, How sweet a name in Greece, after the sin Thy sister wrought, lay in thy ways to win. Ill deeds make fair ones shine, and turn thereto Men's eyes.--Enough: but say he wronged thee; slew By craft thy child:--what wrong had I done, what The babe Orestes? Why didst render not Back unto us, the children of the dead, Our father's portion? Must thou heap thy bed With gold of murdered men, to buy to thee Thy strange man's arms? Justice! Why is not he Who cast Orestes out, cast out again? Not slain for me whom doubly he hath slain, In living death, more bitter than of old My sister's? Nay, when all the tale is told Of blood for blood, what murder shall we make, I and Orestes, for our father's sake? CLYTEMNESTRA. Aye, child; I know thy heart, from long ago. Thou hast alway loved him best. 'Tis oft-time so: One is her father's daughter, and one hot To bear her mother's part. I blame thee not.... Yet think not I am happy, child; nor flown With pride now, in the deeds my hand hath done.... [_Seeing_ ELECTRA _unsympathetic, she checks herself_. But thou art all untended, comfortless Of body and wild of raiment; and thy stress Of travail scarce yet ended!... Woe is me! 'Tis all as I have willed it. Bitterly I wrought against him, to the last blind deep Of bitterness.... Woe's me! ELECTRA. Fair days to weep, When help is not! Or stay: though he lie cold Long since, there lives another of thy fold Far off; there might be pity for thy son? CLYTEMNESTRA. I dare not!... Yes, I fear him. 'Tis mine own Life, and not his, comes first. And rumour saith His heart yet burneth for his father's death. ELECTRA. Why dost thou keep thine husband ever hot Against me? CLYTEMNESTRA. 'Tis his mood. And thou art not So gentle, child! ELECTRA. My spirit is too sore! Howbeit, from this day I will no more Hate him. CLYTEMNESTRA (_with a flash of hope_). O daughter!--Then, indeed, shall he, I promise, never more be harsh to thee! ELECTRA. He lieth in my house, as 'twere his own. 'Tis that hath made him proud. CLYTEMNESTRA. Nay, art thou flown To strife again so quick, child? ELECTRA. Well; I say No more; long have I feared him, and alway Shall fear him, even as now! CLYTEMNESTRA. Nay, daughter, peace! It bringeth little profit, speech like this... Why didst thou call me hither? ELECTRA. It reached thee, My word that a man-child is born to me? Do thou make offering for me--for the rite I know not--as is meet on the tenth night. I cannot; I have borne no child till now. CLYTEMNESTRA. Who tended thee? 'Tis she should make the vow. ELECTRA. None tended me. Alone I bare my child. CLYTEMNESTRA What, is thy cot so friendless? And this wild So far from aid? ELECTRA. Who seeks for friendship sake A beggar's house? CLYTEMNESTRA. I will go in, and make Due worship for thy child, the Peace-bringer. To all thy need I would be minister. Then to my lord, where by the meadow side He prays the woodland nymphs. Ye handmaids, guide My chariot to the stall, and when ye guess The rite draws near its end, in readiness Be here again. Then to my lord!... I owe My lord this gladness, too. [_The Attendants depart;_ CLYTEMNESTRA, _left alone, proceeds to enter the house_. ELECTRA. Welcome below My narrow roof! But have a care withal, A grime of smoke lies deep upon the wall. Soil not thy robe!... Not far now shall it be, The sacrifice God asks of me and thee. The bread of Death is broken, and the knife Lifted again that drank the Wild Bull's life: And on his breast.... Ha, Mother, hast slept well Aforetime? Thou shalt lie with him in Hell. That grace I give to cheer thee on thy road; Give thou to me--peace from my father's blood! [_She follows her mother into the house_. CHORUS. Lo, the returns of wrong. The wind as a changèd thing Whispereth overhead Of one that of old lay dead In the water lapping long: My King, O my King! A cry in the rafters then Rang, and the marble dome: "Mercy of God, not thou, "Woman! To slay me now, "After the harvests ten "Now, at the last, come home!" O Fate shall turn as the tide, Turn, with a doom of tears For the flying heart too fond; A doom for the broken bond. She hailed him there in his pride, Home from the perilous years, In the heart of his wallèd lands, In the Giants' cloud-capt ring; Herself, none other, laid The hone to the axe's blade; She lifted it in her hands, The woman, and slew her king. Woe upon spouse and spouse, Whatso of evil sway Held her in that distress! Even as a lioness Breaketh the woodland boughs Starving, she wrought her way. VOICE OF CLYTEMNESTRA. O Children, Children; in the name of God, Slay not your mother! A WOMAN. Did ye hear a cry Under the rafters? ANOTHER. I weep too, yea, I; Down on the mother's heart the child hath trod! [_A death-cry from within_. ANOTHER. God bringeth Justice in his own slow tide. Aye, cruel is thy doom; but thy deeds done Evil, thou piteous woman, and on one Whose sleep was by thy side! [_The door bursts open, and_ ORESTES _and_ ELECTRA _come forth in disorder. Attendants bring out the bodies of_ CLYTEMNESTRA _and_ AEGISTHUS. LEADER. Lo, yonder, in their mother's new-spilt gore Red-garmented and ghastly, from the door They reel.... O horrible! Was it agony Like this, she boded in her last wild cry? There lives no seed of man calamitous, Nor hath lived, like this seed of Tantalus. ORESTES. O Dark of the Earth, O God, Thou to whom all is plain; Look on my sin, my blood, This horror of dead things twain; Gathered as one they lie Slain; and the slayer was I, I, to pay for my pain! ELECTRA. Let tear rain upon tear, Brother: but mine is the blame. A fire stood over her, And out of the fire I came, I, in my misery.... And I was the child at her knee. 'Mother' I named her name. CHORUS. Alas for Fate, for the Fate of thee, O Mother, Mother of Misery: And Misery, lo, hath turned again, To slay thee, Misery and more, Even in the fruit thy body bore. Yet hast thou Justice, Justice plain, For a sire's blood spilt of yore! ORESTES. Apollo, alas for the hymn Thou sangest, as hope in mine ear! The Song was of Justice dim, But the Deed is anguish clear; And the Gift, long nights of fear, Of blood and of wandering, Where cometh no Greek thing, Nor sight, nor sound on the air. Yea, and beyond, beyond, Roaming--what rest is there? Who shall break bread with me? Who, that is clean, shall see And hate not the blood-red hand, His mother's murderer? ELECTRA. And I? What clime shall hold My evil, or roof it above? I cried for dancing of old, I cried in my heart for love: What dancing waiteth me now? What love that shall kiss my brow Nor blench at the brand thereof? CHORUS. Back, back, in the wind and rain Thy driven spirit wheeleth again. Now is thine heart made clean within That was dark of old and murder-fraught. But, lo, thy brother; what hast thou wrought.... Yea, though I love thee.... what woe, what sin, On him, who willed it not! ORESTES. Saw'st thou her raiment there, Sister, there in the blood? She drew it back as she stood, She opened her bosom bare, She bent her knees to the earth, The knees that bent in my birth.... And I ... Oh, her hair, her hair.... [_He breaks into inarticulate weeping_ CHORUS. Oh, thou didst walk in agony, Hearing thy mother's cry, the cry Of wordless wailing, well know I. ELECTRA. She stretched her hand to my cheek, And there brake from her lips a moan; 'Mercy, my child, my own!' Her hand clung to my cheek; Clung, and my arm was weak; And the sword fell and was gone. CHORUS. Unhappy woman, could thine eye Look on the blood, and see her lie, Thy mother, where she turned to die? ORESTES. I lifted over mine eyes My mantle: blinded I smote, As one smiteth a sacrifice; And the sword found her throat. ELECTRA. I gave thee the sign and the word; I touched with mine hand thy sword. LEADER. Dire is the grief ye have wrought. ORESTES. Sister, touch her again: Oh, veil the body of her; Shed on her raiment fair, And close that death-red stain. --Mother! And didst thou bear, Bear in thy bitter pain, To life, thy murderer? [_The two kneel over the body of_ CLYTEMNESTRA, _and cover her with raiment_. ELECTRA. On her that I loved of yore, Robe upon robe I cast: On her that I hated sore. CHORUS. O House that hath hated sore, Behold thy peace at the last! * * * * * LEADER. Ha, see: above the roof-tree high There shineth ... Is some spirit there Of earth or heaven? That thin air Was never trod by things that die! What bodes it now that forth they fare, To men revealèd visibly? [_There appears in the air a vision of_ CASTOR _and_ POLYDEUCES. _The mortals kneel or veil their faces._ CASTOR. Thou Agamemnon's Son, give ear! 'Tis we. Castor and Polydeuces, call to thee, God's Horsemen and thy mother's brethren twain. An Argive ship, spent with the toiling main, We bore but now to peace, and, here withal Being come, have seen thy mother's bloody fall, Our sister's. Righteous is her doom this day, But not thy deed. And Phoebus, Phoebus ... Nay; He is my lord; therefore I hold my peace. Yet though in light he dwell, no light was this He showed to thee, but darkness! Which do thou Endure, as man must, chafing not. And now Fare forth where Zeus and Fate have laid thy life. The maid Electra thou shalt give for wife To Pylades; then turn thy head and flee From Argos' land. 'Tis never more for thee To tread this earth where thy dead mother lies. And, lo, in the air her Spirits, bloodhound eyes, Most horrible yet Godlike, hard at heel Following shall scourge thee as a burning wheel, Speed-maddened. Seek thou straight Athena's land, And round her awful image clasp thine hand, Praying: and she will fence them back, though hot With flickering serpents, that they touch thee not, Holding above thy brow her gorgon shield. There is a hill in Athens, Ares' field, Where first for that first death by Ares done On Halirrhothius, Poseidon's son, Who wronged his daughter, the great Gods of yore Held judgment: and true judgments evermore Flow from that Hill, trusted of man and God. There shalt thou stand arraignèd of this blood; And of those judges half shall lay on thee Death, and half pardon; so shalt thou go free. For Phoebus in that hour, who bade thee shed Thy mother's blood, shall take on his own head The stain thereof. And ever from that strife The law shall hold, that when, for death or life Of one pursued, men's voices equal stand, Then Mercy conquereth.--But for thee, the band Of Spirits dread, down, down, in very wrath, Shall sink beside that Hill, making their path Through a dim chasm, the which shall aye be trod By reverent feet, where men may speak with God. But thou forgotten and far off shalt dwell, By great Alpheüs' waters, in a dell Of Arcady, where that gray Wolf-God's wall Stands holy. And thy dwelling men shall call Orestes Town. So much to thee be spoke. But this dead man, Aegisthus, all the folk Shall bear to burial in a high green grave Of Argos. For thy mother, she shall have Her tomb from Menelaus, who hath come This day, at last, to Argos, bearing home Helen. From Egypt comes she, and the hall Of Proteus, and in Troy hath ne'er at all Set foot. 'Twas but a wraith of Helen, sent By Zeus, to make much wrath and ravishment. So forth for home, bearing the virgin bride, Let Pylades make speed, and lead beside Thy once-named brother, and with golden store Stablish his house far off on Phocis' shore. Up, gird thee now to the steep Isthmian way, Seeking Athena's blessèd rock; one day, Thy doom of blood fulfilled and this long stress Of penance past, thou shalt have happiness. LEADER (_looking up_). Is it for us, O Seed of Zeus, To speak and hear your words again! CASTOR. Speak: of this blood ye bear no stain. ELECTRA. I also, sons of Tyndareus, My kinsmen; may my word be said? CASTOR. Speak: on Apollo's head we lay The bloody doings of this day. LEADER. Ye Gods, ye brethren of the dead, Why held ye not the deathly herd Of Kêres back from off this home? CASTOR. There came but that which needs must come By ancient Fate and that dark word That rang from Phoebus in his mood. ELECTRA. And what should Phoebus seek with me, Or all God's oracles that be, That I must bear my mother's blood? CASTOR. Thy hand was as thy brother's hand, Thy doom shall be as his. One stain, From dim forefathers on the twain Lighting, hath sapped your hearts as sand. ORESTES (_who has never raised his head, nor spoken to the Gods_). After so long, sister, to see And hold thee, and then part, then part, By all that chained thee to my heart Forsaken, and forsaking thee! CASTOR. Husband and house are hers. She bears No bitter judgment, save to go Exiled from Argos. ELECTRA. And what woe, What tears are like an exile's tears? ORESTES. Exiled and more am I; impure, A murderer in a stranger's hand: CASTOR. Fear not. There dwells in Pallas' land All holiness. Till then endure! [ORESTES _and_ ELECTRA _embrace_ ORESTES. Aye, closer; clasp my body well, And let thy sorrow loose, and shed, As o'er the grave of one new dead, Dead evermore, thy last farewell! [_A sound of weeping_. CASTOR. Alas, what would ye? For that cry Ourselves and all the sons of heaven Have pity. Yea, our peace is riven By the strange pain of these that die. ORESTES. No more to see thee! ELECTRA. Nor thy breath Be near my face! ORESTES. Ah, so it ends. ELECTRA. Farewell, dear Argos. All ye friends, Farewell! ORESTES. O faithful unto death, Thou goest? ELECTRA. Aye, I pass from you, Soft-eyed at last. ORESTES. Go, Pylades, And God go with you! Wed in peace My tall Electra, and be true. [ELECTRA _and_ PYLADES _depart to the left._ CASTOR. Their troth shall fill their hearts.--But on: Dread feet are near thee, hounds of prey, Snake-handed, midnight-visaged, yea, And bitter pains their fruit! Begone! [ORESTES _departs to the right_. But hark, the far Sicilian sea Calls, and a noise of men and ships That labour sunken to the lips In bitter billows; forth go we, Through the long leagues of fiery blue, With saving; not to souls unshriven; But whoso in his life hath striven To love things holy and be true, Through toil and storm we guard him; we Save, and he shall not die!--Therefore, O praise the lying man no more, Nor with oath-breakers sail the sea: Farewell, ye walkers on the shore Of death! A God hath counselled ye. [CASTOR _and_ POLYDEUCES _disappear_. CHORUS. Farewell, farewell!--But he who can so fare, And stumbleth not on mischief anywhere, Blessed on earth is he! NOTES TO THE ELECTRA The chief characters in the play belong to one family, as is shown by the two genealogies:-- I. TANTALUS | Pelops __________|__________________ | | Atreus Thyestes _________|__________ | | | | Agamemnon Menelaus Aegisthus (=Clytemnestra) (=Helen) (=Clytemnestra) _____|________________________ | | | Iphigenia Electra Orestes (Also, a sister of Agamemnon, name variously given, married Strophios, and was the mother of Pylades.) II. Tyndareus = Leda = Zeus ____________________| ____|_________________________ | | | | Clytemnestra Castor Polydeuces Helen P. 1, l. 10, Son of his father's foe.]--Both foe and brother. Atreus and Thyestes became enemies after the theft of the Golden Lamb. See pp. 47 ff. P. 2, l. 34, Must wed with me.]--In Aeschylus and Sophocles Electra is unmarried. This story of her peasant husband is found only in Euripides, but is not likely to have been wantonly invented by him. It was no doubt an existing legend--an [Greek: ôn logos], to use the phrase attributed to Euripides in the _Frogs_ (l. 1052). He may have chosen to adopt it for several reasons. First, to marry Electra to a peasant was a likely step for Aegisthus to take, since any child born to her afterwards would bear a stigma, calculated to damage him fatally as a pretender to the throne. Again, it seemed to explain the name "A-lektra" (as if from [Greek: lektron] "bed;" cf. Schol. _Orestes_, 71, Soph. _El_. 962, _Ant_. 917) more pointedly than the commoner version. And it helps in the working out of Electra's character (cf. pp. 17, 22, &c.). Also it gives an opportunity of introducing the fine character of the peasant. He is an [Greek: Autourgos] literally "self-worker," a man who works his own land, far from the city, neither a slave nor a slave-master; "the men," as Euripides says in the _Orestes_ (920), "who alone save a nation." (Cf, _Bac_., p. 115 foot, and below, p. 26, ll. 367-390.) As Euripides became more and more alienated from the town democracy he tended, like Tolstoy and others, to idealise the workers of the soil. P. 6, l. 62, Children to our enemy.]--Cf. 626. Soph. _El_. 589. They do not seem to be in existence at the time of the play. Pp. 5-6.]--Electra's first two speeches are admirable as expositions of her character--the morbid nursing of hatred as a duty, the deliberate posing, the impulsiveness, the quick response to kindness. P. 7, l. 82, Pylades.]--Pylades is a _persona muta_ both here and in Sophocles' _Electra_, a fixed traditional figure, possessing no quality but devotion to Orestes. In Aeschylus' _Libation-Bearers_ he speaks only once, with tremendous effect, at the crisis of the play, to rebuke Orestes when his heart fails him. In the _Iphigenia in Tauris_, however, and still more in the _Orestes_, he is a fully studied character. P. 10, l. 151, A swan crying alone.]--Cf. _Bacchae_, p. 152, "As yearns the milk-white swan when old swans die." P. 11, ll. 169 ff., The Watcher hath cried this day.]--Hera was an old Pelasgian goddess, whose worship was kept in part a mystery from the invading Achaeans or Dorians. There seems to have been a priest born "of the ancient folk," _i.e._, a Pelasgian or aboriginal Mycenaean, who, by some secret lore--probably some ancient and superseded method of calculating the year--knew when Hera's festival was due, and walked round the country three days beforehand to announce it. He drank "the milk of the flock" and avoided wine, either from some religious taboo, or because he represented the religion of the milk-drinking mountain shepherds. P. 13, ll. 220 ff.]--Observe Electra's cowardice when surprised; contrast her courage, p. 47, when sending Orestes off, and again her quick drop to despair when the news does not come soon enough. P. 16, ll. 247 ff., I am a wife.... O better dead!]--Rather ungenerous, when compared with her words on p. 6. (Cf. also her words on pp. 24 and 26.) But she feels this herself, almost immediately. Orestes naturally takes her to mean that her husband is one of Aegisthus' friends. This would have ruined his plot. (Cf. above, p. 8, l. 98.) P. 22, l. 312, Castor.]--I know no other mention of Electra's betrothal to Castor. He was her kinsman: see below on l. 990. Pp. 22-23, ll. 300-337.]--In this wonderful outbreak, observe the mixture of all sorts of personal resentments and jealousies with the devotion of the lonely woman to her father and her brother. "So men say," is an interesting touch; perhaps conscience tells her midway that she does not quite believe what she is saying. So is the self-conscious recognition of her "bitter burning brain" that interprets all things in a sort of distortion.--Observe, too, how instinctively she turns to the peasant for sympathy in the strain of her emotion. It is his entrance, perhaps, which prevents Orestes from being swept away and revealing himself. The peasant's courage towards two armed men is striking, as well as his courtesy and his sanity. He is the one character in the play not somehow tainted with blood-madness. P. 27, ll. 403, 409.]--Why does Electra send her husband to the Old Man? Not, I think, really for want of the food. It would have been easier to borrow (p. 12, l. 191) from the Chorus; and, besides, what the peasant says is no doubt true, that, if she liked, she could find "many a pleasant thing" in the house. I think she sends for the Old Man because he is the only person who would know Orestes (p. 21, l. 285). She is already, like the Leader (p. 26, l. 401), excited by hopes which she will not confess. This reading makes the next scene clearer also. Pp. 28-30, ll. 432-487, O for the Ships of Troy.]--The two main Choric songs of this play are markedly what Aristotle calls [Greek: embolima] "things thrown in." They have no effect upon the action, and form little more than musical "relief." Not that they are positively irrelevant. Agamemnon is in our minds all through the play, and Agamemnon's glory is of course enhanced by the mention of Troy and the praises of his subordinate king, Achilles. Thetis, the Nereid, or sea-maiden, was won to wife by Peleus. (He wrestled with her on the seashore, and never loosed hold, though she turned into divers strange beings--a lion, and fire, and water, and sea-beasts.) She bore him Achilles, and then, unable permanently to live with a mortal, went back beneath the sea. When Achilles was about to sail to Troy, she and her sister Nereids brought him divine armour, and guided his ships across the Aegean. The designs on Achilles' armour, as on Heracles' shield, form a fairly common topic of poetry. The descriptions of the designs are mostly clear. Perseus with the Gorgon's head, guided by Hermês; the Sun on a winged chariot, and stars about him; two Sphinxes, holding as victims the men who had failed to answer the riddles which they sang; and, on the breastplate, the Chimaera attacking Bellerophon's winged horse, Pêgasus. The name Pêgasus suggested to a Greek [Greek: pegê], "fountain;" and the great spring of Pirênê, near Corinth, was made by Pêgasus stamping on the rock. Pp. 30-47.]--The Old Man, like other old family servants in Euripides--the extreme case is in the _Ion_--is absolutely and even morbidly devoted to his masters. Delightful in this first scene, he becomes a little horrible in the next, where they plot the murders; not only ferocious himself, but, what seems worse, inclined to pet and enjoy the bloodthirstiness of his "little mistress." Pp. 30-33, ll. 510-545.]--The Signs of Orestes. This scene, I think, has been greatly misunderstood by critics. In Aeschylus' _Libation-Bearers_, which deals with the same subject as the _Electra_, the scene is at Agamemnon's tomb. Orestes lays his tress there in the prologue. Electra comes bringing libations, sees the hair, compares it with her own, finds that it is similar "wing for wing" ([Greek: homopteros]--the same word as here), and guesses that it belongs to Orestes. She then measures the footprints, and finds one that is like her own, one not; evidently Orestes and a fellow-traveller! Orestes enters and announces himself; she refuses to believe, until he shows her a "woven thing," perhaps the robe which he is wearing, which she recognises as the work of her own hand. The same signs, described in one case by the same peculiar word, occur here. The Old Man mentions one after the other, and Electra refutes or rejects them. It has been thought therefore that this scene was meant as an attack--a very weak and undignified attack--on Euripides' great master. No parallel for such an artistically ruinous proceeding is quoted from any Greek tragedy. And, apart from the improbability _a priori_, I do not think it even possible to read the scene in this sense. To my mind, Electra here rejects the signs not from reason, but from a sort of nervous terror. She dares not believe that Orestes has come; because, if it prove otherwise, the disappointment will be so terrible. As to both signs, the lock of hair and the footprints, her arguments may be good; but observe that she is afraid to make the comparison at all. And as to the footprint, she says there cannot be one, when the Old Man has just seen it! And, anyhow, she will not go to see it! Similarly as to the robe, she does her best to deny that she ever wove it, though she and the Old Man both remember it perfectly. She is fighting tremulously, with all her flagging strength, against the thing she longs for. The whole point of the scene requires that one ray of hope after another should be shown to Electra, and that she should passionately, blindly, reject them all. That is what Euripides wanted the signs for. But why, it may be asked, did he adopt Aeschylus' signs, and even his peculiar word? Because, whether invented by Aeschylus or not, these signs were a canonical part of the story by the time Euripides wrote. Every one who knew the story of Orestes' return at all, knew of the hair and the footprint. Aristophanes in the _Clouds_ (534 ff.) uses them proverbially, when he speaks of his comedy "recognising its brother's tress." It would have been frivolous to invent new ones. As a matter of fact, it seems probable that the signs are older than Aeschylus; neither they nor the word [Greek: homopteros] particularly suit Aeschylus' purpose. (Cf. Dr. Verrall's introduction to the _Libation-Bearers_.) They probably come from the old lyric poet, Stesichorus. P. 43, l. 652, New-mothered of a Man-Child.]--Her true Man-Child, the Avenger whom they had sought to rob her of! This pitiless plan was suggested apparently by the sacrifice to the Nymphs (p. 40). "Weep my babe's low station" is of course ironical. The babe would set a seal on Electra's degradation to the peasant class, and so end the blood-feud, as far as she was concerned. Clytemnestra, longing for peace, must rejoice in Electra's degradation. Yet she has motherly feelings too, and in fact hardly knows what to think or do till she can consult Aegisthus (p. 71). Electra, it would seem, actually calculates upon these feelings, while despising them. P. 45, l. 669, If but some man will guide me.]--A suggestion of the irresolution or melancholia that beset Orestes afterwards, alternating with furious action. (Cf. Aeschylus' _Libation-Bearers_, Euripides' _Andromache_ and _Orestes_.) P. 45, l. 671, Zeus of my sires, &c]--In this invocation, short and comparatively unmoving, one can see perhaps an effect of Aeschylus' play. In the _Libation-Bearers_ the invocation of Agamemnon comprises 200 lines of extraordinarily eloquent poetry. P. 47 ff., ll. 699 ff.]--The Golden Lamb. The theft of the Golden Lamb is treated as a story of the First Sin, after which all the world was changed and became the poor place that it now is. It was at least the First Sin in the blood-feud of this drama. The story is not explicitly told. Apparently the magic lamb was brought by Pan from the gods, and given to Atreus as a special grace and a sign that he was the true king. His younger brother, Thyestes, helped by Atreus' wife, stole it and claimed to be king himself. So good was turned into evil, and love into hatred, and the stars shaken in their courses. [It is rather curious that the Lamb should have such a special effect upon the heavens and the weather. It is the same in Plato (_Polit._ 268 ff.), and more definitely so in the treatise _De Astrologia,_ attributed to Lucian, which says that the Golden Lamb is the constellation Aries, "The Ram." Hugo Winckler (_Weltanschauung des alten Orients_, pp. 30, 31) suggests that the story is a piece of Babylonian astronomy misunderstood. It seems that the vernal equinox, which is now moving from the Ram into the Fish, was in the ninth and eighth centuries B.C. moving from the Bull into the Ram. Now the Bull, Marduk, was the special god of Babylon, and the time when he yielded his place to the Ram was also, as a matter of fact, the time of the decline of Babylon. The gradual advance of the Ram not only upset the calendar, and made all the seasons wrong; but seemed, since it coincided with the fall of the Great City, to upset the world in general! Of course Euripides would know nothing of this. He was apparently attracted to the Golden Lamb merely by the quaint beauty of the story.] P. 50, l. 746, Thy brethren even now.]--Castor and Polydeuces, who were received into the stars after their death. See below, on l. 990. P. 51, l. 757, That answer bids me die.]--Why? Because Orestes, if he won at all, would win by a surprise attack, and would send news instantly. A prolonged conflict, without a message, would mean that Orestes and Pylades were being overpowered. Of course she is wildly impatient. P. 51, l. 765, Who an thou? I mistrust thee.]--Just as she mistrusted the Old Man's signs. See above, p. 89. P. 52 ff., ll. 774 ff.]--Messenger's Speech. This speech, though swift and vivid, is less moving and also less sympathetic than most of the Messengers' Speeches. Less moving, because the slaying of Aegisthus has little moral interest; it is merely a daring and dangerous exploit. Less sympathetic, because even here, in the first and comparatively blameless step of the blood-vengeance, Euripides makes us feel the treacherous side of it. A [Greek: dolophonia], a "slaying by guile," even at its best, remains rather an ugly thing. P. 53, l. 793, Then quickly spake Orestes.]--If Orestes had washed with Aegisthus, he would have become his _xenos_, or guest, as much as if he had eaten his bread and salt. In that case the slaying would have been definitely a crime, a dishonourable act. Also, Aegisthus would have had the right to ask his name.--The unsuspiciousness of Aegisthus is partly natural; it was not thus, alone and unarmed, that he expected Orestes to stand before him. Partly it seems like a heaven-sent blindness. Even the omens do not warn him, though no doubt in a moment more they would have done so. P. 56, l. 878, With guile he hath slain.]--So the MSS. The Chorus have already a faint feeling, quickly suppressed, that there may be another side to Orestes' action. Most editors alter the text to mean "He hath slain these guileful ones." P. 58, l. 900, It shames me, yet God knows I hunger sore.]--To treat the dead with respect was one of the special marks of a Greek as opposed to a barbarian. It is possible that the body of Aegisthus might legitimately have been refused burial, or even nailed on a cross as Orestes in a moment of excitement suggests. But to insult him lying dead would be a shock to all Greek feeling. ("Unholy is the voice of loud thanksgiving over slaughtered men," _Odyssey_ xxii. 412.) Any excess of this kind, any violence towards the helpless, was apt to rouse "The sleeping wrath of the world." There was a Greek proverb, "Even an injured dog has his Erinys"-- _i.e._, his unseen guardian or avenger. It is interesting, though not surprising, to hear that men had little love for Electra. The wonderful speech that follows, though to a conventional Greek perhaps the most outrageous thing of which she is guilty, shows best the inherent nobility of her character before years of misery had "killed her soul within." P. 59, ll. 928 f., Being in falseness one, &c]--The Greek here is very obscure and almost certainly corrupt. P. 61, l. 964, 'Tis my mother comes.]--The reaction has already begun in Orestes. In the excitement and danger of killing his enemy he has shown coolness and courage, but now a work lies before him vastly more horrible, a little more treacherous, and with no element of daring to redeem it. Electra, on the other hand, has done nothing yet; she has merely tried, not very successfully, to revile the dead body, and her hate is unsatisfied. Besides, one sees all through the play that Aegisthus was a kind of odious stranger to her; it was the woman, her mother, who came close to her and whom she really hated. P. 63, l. 979, Was it some fiend of Hell?]--The likeness to _Hamlet_ is obvious. ("The spirit that I have seen May be the Devil." End of Act II.) P. 63, l. 983, How shall it be then, the same stealthy blow?...]--He means, I think, "the same as that with which I have already murdered an unsuspecting man to-day," but Electra for her own purposes misinterprets him. P. 64, l. 990, God's horsemen, stars without a stain.]--Cf. above, ll. 312, 746. Castor and Polydeuces were sons of Zeus and Leda, brothers of Helen, and half-brothers of Clytemnestra, whose father was the mortal Tyndareus. They lived as knights without reproach, and afterwards became stars and demigods. The story is told that originally Castor was mortal and Polydeuces immortal; but when Castor was fatally wounded Polydeuces prayed that he might be allowed to give him half his immortality. The prayer was granted; and the two live as immortals, yet, in some mysterious way, knowing the taste of death. Unlike the common sinners and punishers of the rest of the play, these Heroes find their "glory" in saving men from peril and suffering, especially at sea, where they appear as the globes of light, called St. Elmo's fire, upon masts and yards. Pp. 64-71, ll. 998 ff.]--Clytemnestra. "And what sort of woman is this doomed and 'evil' Queen? We know the majestic murderess of Aeschylus, so strong as to be actually beautiful, so fearless and unrepentant that one almost feels her to be right. One can imagine also another figure that would be theatrically effective--a 'sympathetic' sinner, beautiful and penitent, eager to redeem her sin by self-sacrifice. But Euripides gives us neither. Perhaps he believed in neither. It is a piteous and most real character that we have here, in this sad middle-aged woman, whose first words are an apology; controlling quickly her old fires, anxious to be as little hated as possible. She would even atone, one feels, if there were any safe way of atonement; but the consequences of her old actions are holding her, and she is bound to persist.... In her long speech it is scarcely to Electra that she is chiefly speaking; it is to the Chorus, perhaps to her own bondmaids; to any or all of the people whose shrinking so frets her." (_Independent Review, l.c._) P. 65, l. 1011, Cast his child away.]--The Greek fleet assembled for Troy was held by contrary winds at Aulis, in the Straits of Euboea, and the whole expedition was in danger of breaking up. The prophets demanded a human sacrifice, and Agamemnon gave his own daughter, Iphigenîa. He induced Clytemnestra to send her to him, by the pretext that Achilles had asked for her in marriage. P. 66, l. 1046, Which led me to the men he hated.]--It made Clytemnestra's crime worse, that her accomplice was the blood-foe. Pp. 65-68. As elsewhere in Euripides, these two speeches leave the matter undecided. He does not attempt to argue the case out. He gives us a flash of light, as it were, upon Clytemnestra's mind and then upon Electra's. Each believes what she is saying, and neither understands the whole truth. It is clear that Clytemnestra, being left for ten years utterly alone, and having perhaps something of Helen's temperament about her, naturally fell in love with the Lord of a neighbouring castle; and having once committed herself, had no way of saving her life except by killing her husband, and afterwards either killing or keeping strict watch upon Orestes and Electra. Aegisthus, of course, was deliberately plotting to carry out his blood-feud and to win a great kingdom. P. 72, l. 1156, For the flying heart too fond.]--The text is doubtful, but this seems to be the literal translation, and the reference to Clytemnestra is intelligible enough. P. 73, l. 1157, The giants' cloud-capped ring.]--The great walls of Mycenae, built by the Cyclôpes; cf. _Trojan Women_, p. 64, "Where the towers of the giants shine O'er Argos cloudily." P. 75, l. 1201, Back, back in the wind and rain.]--The only explicit moral judgment of the Chorus; cf. note on l. 878. P. 77, l. 1225, I touched with my hand thy sword.]--_i.e._, Electra dropped her own sword in horror, then in a revulsion of feeling laid her hand upon Orestes' sword--out of generosity, that he might not bear his guilt alone. P. 78, l. 1241, An Argive ship.]--This may have been the ship of Menelaus, which was brought to Argos by Castor and Polydeuces, see l. 1278. _Helena_ 1663. The ships labouring in the "Sicilian sea" (p. 82, l. 1347) must have suggested to the audience the ships of the great expedition against Sicily, then drawing near to its destruction. The Athenian fleet was destroyed early in September 413 B.C.: this play was probably produced in the spring of the same year, at which time the last reinforcements were being sent out. P. 78, l. 1249.]--Marriage of Pylades and Electra. A good example of the essentially historic nature of Greek tragedy. No one would have invented a marriage between Electra and Pylades for the purposes of this play. It is even a little disturbing. But it is here, because it was a fixed fact in the tradition (cf. _Iphigenia in Tauris_, l. 915 ff.), and could not be ignored. Doubtless these were people living who claimed descent from Pylades and Electra. P. 79, l. 1253, Scourge thee as a burning wheel.]--At certain feasts a big wheel soaked in some inflammable resin or tar was set fire to and rolled down a mountain. P. 79, l. 1258, There is a hill in Athens.]--The great fame of the Areopagus as a tribunal for man-slaying (see Aeschylus' _Eumenides_) cannot have been due merely to its incorruptibility. Hardly any Athenian tribunal was corruptible. But the Areopagus in very ancient times seems to have superseded the early systems of "blood-feud" or "blood-debt" by a humane and rational system of law, taking account of intention, provocation, and the varying degrees of guilt. The Erinyes, being the old Pelasgian avengers of blood, now superseded, have their dwelling in a cavern underneath the Areopagus. P. 80, ll. 1276 ff.]--The graves of Aegisthus and Clytemnestra actually existed in Argos (Paus. ii. 16, 7). They form, so to speak, the concrete material fact round which the legend of this play circles (cf. Ridgeway in _Hellenic Journal_, xxiv. p. xxxix.). P. 80, l. 1280.]--Helen. The story here adumbrated is taken from Stesichorus, and forms the plot of Euripides' play _Helena_ (cf. Herodotus, ii. 113 ff.). P. 80, l, 1295, I also, sons of Tyndareus.]--Observe that Electra claims the gods as cousins (cf. p. 22, l. 313), addressing them by the name of their mortal father. The Chorus has called them "sons of Zeus." In the same spirit she faces the gods, complains, and even argues, while Orestes never raises his eyes to them. P. 80, l. 1300.]--Kêres. The death-spirits that flutter over our heads, as Homer says, "innumerable, whom no man can fly nor hide from." P. 82, l. 1329, Yea, our peace is riven by the strange pain of these that die.]--Cf. the attitude of Artemis at the end of the _Hippolytus_. Sometimes Euripides introduces gods whose peace is not riven, but then they are always hateful. (Cf. Aphrodite in the _Hippolytus_, Dionysus in the _Bacchae_, Athena in the _Trojan Women_.) P. 82, l. 1336, O faithful unto death.]--This is the last word we hear of Electra, and it is interesting. With all her unlovely qualities it remains true that she was faithful--faithful to the dead and the absent, and to what she looked upon as a fearful duty. * * * * * Additional Note on the presence of the Argive women during the plot against the King and Queen. (Cf. especially p. 19, l. 272, These women hear us.)--It would seem to us almost mad to speak so freely before the women. But one must observe: 1. Stasis, or civil enmity, ran very high in Greece, and these women were of the party that hated Aegisthus. 2. There runs all through Euripides a very strong conception of the cohesiveness of women, their secretiveness, and their faithfulness to one another. Medea, Iphigenia, and Creusa, for instance, trust their women friends with secrets involving life and death, and the secrets are kept. On the other hand, when a man--Xuthus in the _Ion_--tells the Chorus women a secret, they promptly and with great courage betray him. Aristophanes leaves the same impression; and so do many incidents in Greek history. Cf. the murders plotted by the Athenian women (Hdt. v. 87), and both by and against the Lemnian women (Hdt. vi. 138). The subject is a large one, but I would observe: 1. Athenian women were kept as a rule very much together, and apart from men. 2. At the time of the great invasions the women of a community must often have been of different race from the men; and this may have started a tradition of behaviour. 3. Members of a subject (or disaffected) nation have generally this cohesiveness: in Ireland, Poland, and parts of Turkey the details of a political crime will, it is said, be known to a whole country side, but not a whisper come to the authorities. Of course the mere mechanical fact that the Chorus had to be present on the stage counts for something. It saved the dramatist trouble to make his heroine confide in the Chorus. But I do not think Euripides would have used this situation so often unless it had seemed to him both true to life and dramatically interesting.